


Piecemeal

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [11]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst, Animal Crossing: New Horizons, Armpit Kink, Barebacking, Bottom Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Chaotic Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Characters Reading Fanfiction, Cheating, Christmas, Contemplation of Consent in Sex Trade/Industry, Creampie, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Ensemble Cast, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Masks, Fisticuffs, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Human Rosie (Hazbin Hotel), Human Stolas (Helluva Boss), Human Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Human Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Bondage, M/M, Mention of Past Verbal Abuse, Meta, Mommy Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Pregnancy Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Toys, Sexual Coercion, Slice of Life, Spanking, Spitroasting, Strangulation, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, discussion of animal cruelty, discussion of animal welfare and euthanasia, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: One-shots, vignettes, scraps, and excerpts, haphazardly floating around in the human Hazbin roommates AU.Mostly devoid of gratuitoussmutviolence.Mostly.(Individual ratings assigned to each chapter)
Relationships: Alastor & Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor & Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Stolas (Helluva Boss), Alastor and Rosie and Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust/Stolas (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Male Character(s), Implied Cherri Bomb/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Implied Husk/Niffty, Past Angel Dust/Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 459
Kudos: 414





	1. Colleagues (Alastor & Vox, Rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers to sterekrules, who wanted to know what exactly Alastor does in his free time. This explains everything and nothing.

He positively loathes when his custom made shoes are splattered. It takes ages to scrub and polish it back to rights and even then, if he’s not fastidious about it, the stench follows him for days.

He abhors the man beside him comparatively more, however.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we agreed to simple territorial terms?”

Vox emits a disgusted grunt. Alastor interprets it as begrudging admittance.

“We did, but this one happened to cross boundaries and we needed to get rid of the shit stain, asap.”

Alastor raises a brow, never once dropping his insidious smile.

“I assumed as much, but as far as I’m concerned, that still breaks our prior détente. This is _my_ jurisdiction, as agreed upon at the last meeting.”

Vox glares back, the scar bisecting his left eye, corpse-grey, in the moon’s glow.

“Right, but you deliberately missed the fucking tribunal after that. Don’t think I don’t notice that you’re trying to avoid running into Val.”

A waft of sea-salty wind brushes past them, ruffling the edges of the black plastic. Vox scrunches his nose at the reintroduction of miasma. Alastor sneers at his apparent sensitivity.

Unbelievable, he thinks. Ten years of being in the game and his stomach is just as weak as ever.

“Firstly, that was hastily arranged and if they can’t be bothered to adhere to a regular schedule, then I can’t be bothered to wrangle mine at the eleventh hour.”

Vox rolls his eyes. Alastor continues, magnanimously avoiding the slight.

“Secondly, I am not avoiding him. In fact, I’d savor the chance to have a little tête-à-tête with him. It would be _marvelously_ cathartic.”

Vox sighs.

“That was by far the most thinly veiled threat that I’ve ever heard in my goddamn life. And I’ll see what I can do to keep him from you, should he show up to the meetings one day instead of sending his lackey,” Vox says, cracking his neck. “Not for nothing, but the kid grew on me and I’d hate to see him so upset when he finds your mangled up body.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow. Before he has a chance to retort or possibly attack, Vox interrupts him. He pushes the toe of his shoe into the bulky rubbish bag. It indents slightly, releasing another malodorous bouquet, before springing back.

“Now, can you please help me carry this?”

Alastor rolls his eyes but relents. He helps him hoist it up. The wind returns. It licks at their backs as they spirit it away from the loading docks.


	2. Animal Crossing (Alastor & Angel Dust & Husk +bonus, Rated T)

“Al, ya coming to my island later?”

Angel drapes himself over the couch, suggestively biting his bottom lip as Alastor sits beside him, engrossed in his book. He parts his lips to answer when Husk’s loud voice cuts through the din.

“Is that code for fucking? Are you guys seriously talking about dicking down in front of me?”

Alastor says, slowly and as if talking to a very small child, “No, you imbecile. It’s a game.”

“Animal Crossing, Husk. Ya ain’t heard of it? It’s the most popular game out right now!”

Angel pokes his head out and inclines it towards the dining table, where Husk is nursing his fifth glass of whatever was left in their liquor cabinet. Husk frowns.

“Does it have to do with that console you got us two months ago?”

“Oh my god, yes. The fuck, did ya even open it?”

“Eh, Niffty did. She plays her stupid games on it all the time. Why, that game worth getting?”

“Is it…oh my god, Husk. Just download it already. Unless Niffty already has it, then start playing it so we have a better chance at selling turnips at the best stalk market prices!”

Husk just stares at him.

He stares some more, then looks down at his drink. He brings it to his mouth and polishes off the contents.

Only then does he speak.

“I’m sorry, the fuck did you say?”

* * *

They eventually help create Husk’s avatar and set up his island. It takes a few days for him to familiarize himself with the controls and the general idea, but he catches on fairly quickly for someone who doesn’t usually play video games.

It’s when he visits their islands that he makes the egregious mistake.

“Oh shit, Al! Free bells! Ya got bell trees!”

Angel stiffens. The energy emitting from Alastor is palpable, and entirely maleficent.

Faux pas number one: Bell trees are off-limits on your friends’ islands. Especially if they’re allowing you to visit to sell your turnips.

“Husker,” Alastor begins, but it’s too late. Angel thinks his roommate has a death wish.

Husk ignores the both of them to explore the island further. When he becomes bored with that, he decides the next best course of action is to harass his fellow players by whacking them with his tools. Alastor does a well enough job at keeping his temper at bay until Husk ruins his fishing by either stealing his fish or aiming for the same one then yanking back his fishing rod prematurely.

Faux pas number two.

“Husker,” Alastor grits out. “I’m serious.”

“No, you’re fucking Alastor.”

“Nah, that’ll be me, toots.”

To add insult to injury, Husk then starts to plow through Alastor’s garden, tearing up tufts of flowers in his destructive wake. The painstakingly well-crafted garden that Alastor spent ages perfecting.

That one.

Faux pas number three.

“Do you know how long I worked on that garden?”

Alastor’s voice is level, but acrimonious. He’s restraining himself, but just barely. Angel sinks further into the couch.

Can’t fix stupid, he thinks. Or suicidal.

“I dunno, like a couple of hours?”

Angel doesn’t bat an eye as his boyfriend lunges at his other roommate, yanking him down to the floor. Alastor’s hands close around Husk’s neck as Husk shoots his hands out, pushing feebly against Alastor’s chest.

As Alastor strangles Husk, the girls walk in with the take-out.

Charlie drops a bag. Vaggie just barely manages to catch herself.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Angel looks up from his console, beaming.

“Oh hey, guys! Wanna play some Animal Crossing? It’s super fun!”

Husk gasps out his disagreement from the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I hope you all are ready for a deluge of fics for RadioDust week. I got three (Timmy: Three!) coming in hot, because I can’t strangle my muse like how Alastor strangles Husk.


	3. Mine (Alastor/Angel Dust vs Valentino, Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prequel, of sorts.

“Anythin’ ya wanna say for yourself?”

“You’re welcome,” he hazards, words leaving his lips purposefully clotted.

Angel slaps his forehead in exasperation.

“Al, ya almost fuckin’ killed him! Shit, he almost killed you! What the fuck is wrong with the both of ya?”

“Firstly, almost doesn’t count. Secondly, I can’t speak for him, obviously, but there’s perfectly nothing wrong with me. In fact, I would say that my reaction to an explicit, incendiary attack on my person and your virtue is entirely warranted, no?”

“Overreaction, asshole. And Jesus! What the fuck…what would even possess ya to…”

“I’m not apologizing if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Angel winds up to retort when Alastor interrupts him.

“I usually don’t bother with the rabble, but well,” Alastor sniffs. “This was an extraordinary circumstance.”

“After all, what better way to one-up your ex-lover?”

Angel sighs, both at the way the last word was spat out and from remembering the whole cursed ordeal.

* * *

Valentino’s unctuous voice rang out after them.

It had been such a wonderful night.

Which is why of course it had to end on a sour note.

They went to dinner at a highly rated restaurant, satisfying Alastor’s diva tendencies and Angel’s inherent need to socialize. Afterward, they decided to hit up a fancy bar to cap off the night. The hotel speakeasy-style bar was Alastor’s aesthetic and the antithesis of Valentino’s, which was why the run-in was so shocking and unexpected.

“Oh, Angel Dust,” he sang in his breathy, theatric voice. Angel’s skin crawled as it reached his ears, past the ambient bar noise. Alastor stiffened beside him.

“What a surprise,” he continued, slithering closer (too close, too close, Angel’s mind screamed), “and how interesting. Albert, was it? A little birdie told me all about you two.”

Angel ground his teeth. “It’s _Alastor_ , Val. And we’re on our way out.”

He moved to extricate himself, but Alastor’s hand shot out and pinned his wrist in a vice grip.

“I think not,” Alastor said, through bared teeth, a sinister replica of a smile. “Valentino, was it? I do believe we’re overdue for a conversation à deux.”

Valentino mirrored his predatory stance.

“Oh, yes, _far long_ overdue,” he purred, running his tongue over his lip. Alastor’s smile twitched at the corners while he spoke with forced equanimity.

“I have been rather laissez-faire up until recently, so do forgive my impertinence in these matters. If I’m not mistaken, I believe you’ve been skirting at the boundaries of my jurisdiction for _quite_ some time now.”

Angel was unsure if he meant it literally or figuratively.

“Sweetness, the operative word is ‘skirting’, not ‘overstepping’. One could argue that you plucked something from mine, in a _loose_ sense.”

Angel glowered, barely holding his tongue at the implication.

“My dear, I’m starting to think your memories are starting to fray. One can’t poach something that has already _voluntarily_ escaped. Ah. Slip of the tongue. I meant: left you.”

Valentino clenched his fists, and Angel involuntarily flinched. Alastor, sensing his discomfort, ran soothing circles with his thumb, tracing the back of his hand. Valentino’s eyes narrowed at the gesture, and his lip curled.

“Am I, now? Come to think about it, I’m recalling a very funny memory that seems to be resurfacing, Alastor. Featuring the two of you.”

Angel was confused. _How_ did they know each other, he wondered. And what possible memory could that be?

As far as he knew, Alastor had no interest in anything remotely up Valentino’s alley. He made it clear to Angel that Valentino’s machinations were anathema to him. Angel wasn’t a complete dunce. He knew, in a rough sense, that Alastor had fingers in many questionable pies, but he purposely turned a blind eye to them.

Angel grew up in a felonious family, after all. The less you knew, the better.

And whatever mess Alastor got up to in the meantime should hardly overlap with Valentino’s businesses.

As they eyed each other up, Angel stared at Alastor. Something niggled at him.

_But what?_

* * *

The first time Alastor met Valentino was relatively uneventful. Vox and Rosie acted as intermediaries, so the introduction did not go as pear-shaped as he’d expected.

Alastor, with every crooked bone in his body, abhors the industries that Valentino concerns himself with. Heavily involved with trafficking and the like, Valentino built his empire on auctions supplied with unwilling bodies or desperate participants to create scads of manufactured porn of consensual, dubious, and non-consensual varieties. Alastor, glaringly self-aware of his own sexuality and being a person of mixed race and the descendant of enslaved ancestors, despises the whole business derived from dubious consent and outright rape. He can’t even begin to imagine the abject horror someone of any sexuality or persuasion faces in those situations.

An underworld shaped by such barbarity, rife with evil and lacking in humanity, was the catalyst for Alastor’s rise in it. The world was unkind and unfair. However, to win at the game, one must have skin in the game. As long as he retained power, he was unreachable.

But as much as Alastor would have liked to displace Valentino on principle alone, he knows how fruitless it would ultimately be. The world’s oldest profession, indeed. Should Alastor slice off this head, another willing successor would take its place. It was a never-ending nightmare.

In the end, Alastor settled on a clandestine agreement with Vox and Rosie which stipulated stepping in when the line in the sand invariably moved.

This meant Alastor had to play ball with Valentino eventually. First came the introduction.

The invitation arrived second.

Why this meant he had to submit a copy of recent STI testing and a blood test checking for the more insidious ones was anyone’s guess. This was the first time he’d been invited to one of Valentino’s parties, and with the man in question not in attendance, the soirée seemed rather mysterious indeed.

He checks his coat with the staff at the door, then steps into the spacious foyer. Soaking in the opulent surroundings, Alastor makes note of five possible exits and entrances, two possibly hidden rooms judging by the suspicious placement of objects and curious lack of dust, and at least ten traps in the living area itself, should anyone get too familiar.

Not to mention the cameras. The house is lousy with them.

“Alastor,” Vox greets, albeit grumpily. “Welcome to the party.”

“Vox.”

He plucks Rosie’s hand from where it dangles in the air and kisses the back of it.

“Rosie,” he says, shades warmer.

“Alastor, always such a pleasure,” she coos back.

“Are we fucking done with the kumbaya?”

“Crude,” Rosie sniffs. Alastor is inclined to agree.

He glances out past the sea of guests, all milling about in the grand room. Their inane twitters fill the space in a charmingly vacuous sort of way. Judging by her upturned nose, Rosie is thinking the same.

“I’m assuming we’re all needed somewhere else? Somewhere private, perhaps?”

Vox sighs. “This ain’t business, but pleasure. He told me to tell you guys: third floor, fourth room, to the left of the elevators.”

Alastor laughs. “Well. Consider me intrigued.”

He offers an arm to Rosie and she takes it, nodding at his impeccable manners.

Vox rolls his eyes.

“Follow me.”

* * *

They end up in a poorly lit room.

Confused, he looks around, eyes adjusting to the dim when he spies-

Ah.

A gorgeous, youthful thing is shackled to the bed, all four limbs tied to each bedpost.

He’s not unconscious or incapacitated apart from the restraints. He smirks cheekily in their general direction, biting his lip and disregarding the blindfold affixed around his eyes.

There was a method to Valentino’s madness, after all. Now he understands why he insisted upon all those tests.

“Damn,” Vox says, “I come to these things a lot. This is the first time he-”

He stops. The boy responds with a scathing remark.

“He didn’t choose me, I fuckin’ volunteered. Why do ya think there’s only the three of ya here? I’m his fuckin’ _favorite_.”

Alastor and Rosie share a look.

“Fuck, can’t do it, conflict of interest. I’m out, kid. You guys have fun, go fuck yourselves, him, yadda yadda.”

Vox rips the door open and walks into the light. Alastor is about to do the same when Rosie stops him.

“Alastor,” she whispers without moving her lips. “I think this is a test meant solely for you. He knew, for whatever reason, that Vox wouldn’t partake and that neither would I.”

Alastor shrugs noncommittedly which prompts her to slap his arm. He winces in a show of exaggerated pain as she carries on. “And if this is a test, I suggest you find out precisely what he means.”

She pinches his bicep before sliding out the door.

“Favourite,” she muses, and it’s not to herself.

The door swings shut, and Alastor is alone, save for the beautiful boy held in place by shining shackles.

* * *

Alastor cautiously walks forward, checking for traps. As he nears the bed, his sense of smell is assaulted by cologne.

He smells like roses and vanilla.

Unsure of what to do but also having no other contingency plan, Alastor sits on the bed next to him. He’s treated to smooth, pale skin smattered in constellations of freckles. He’s clean-shaven, which gives off an impression of marble. His mind flips through images of art galleries, the Louvre, the Met. Aesthetically, he’s imperfectly flawless.

He’s striking, and Alastor is struck with an urge to possess.

“Touch me, baby,” he moans theatrically.

Alastor rolls his eyes. He lifts a finger and brings it down on his abdomen. The skin is supple, there.

He traces the word, _No_ , on it, well aware of the paradox.

Alastor’s voice is far too recognizable. It’s ludicrous to even consider trusting this strange boy. He can’t trust Valentino farther than he can throw him, so why should his favorite pet be any different?

He greedily laps up the lithe body with his eyes. Even in the dark, he gauges him to be young, but not scandalously so. He writes the question on his stomach.

_Age?_

The boy writhes and gasps under his finger. The curl of desire, the need to claim is a gut-punch. He shocks himself at the force of the unwarranted sensation.

“Nghh,” he moans. Alastor’s finger, as if moving on its own accord, repeats the gesture, lower down.

“Nineteen,” he gasps out.

Young, Alastor thinks. Not that far off from his own age, to be sure. Give or take five years or so.

“How ‘bout you, baby?”

It’s amazing how cocksure he is, tied up to a bed and blindfolded. Alastor, god help him, enjoys the sass.

_No_ , he writes again. He watches in fascination as the boy’s cock stirs to hardness.

_Name_ , he writes. Question mark.

His hips fly up as he thrusts into Alastor’s touch. He seems to miss the question entirely, so Alastor lightly slaps the side of his face.

Pay attention, he projects. He repeats the question just in time before the boy turns his head and tries to bite the offending hand.

Alastor’s faster, so he moves it down to his jaw, prying it open. He leaves it open for a moment or so, just to prove a point, then lets him close his mouth. His lips are so pink. Alastor doesn’t know why that should be beguiling.

Or why he lingered on them so.

Alastor shrugs the peculiar thought away as the boy opens his mouth to speak.

Cowed, for the time being, he says:

“Angel.”

Apt name, Alastor thinks. He, glowing like a beacon amidst all this darkness, embodies it.

* * *

The problem is, Alastor doesn’t know what to do.

He feels boxed into a corner, and he hates it. He knows Valentino is itching to trap him. Alastor is aware of the surveillance besieging him. The low hum of electrical currents drones softly in the background. The darkness may shield most of the grainy output projected onto the screen, but this is not the time to take chances.

One thing is for certain: he’s laid out the honeypot. All that’s left is the choice to consume or reject.

Should Alastor give in, Valentino will either use this to his advantage as blackmail, or punish him for desecrating his supposedly favorite pet.

Should Alastor resist, he will try and devise other ways to entrap him. As much as he likes to fancy himself a lone wolf, he isn’t. His roommates can attest to that. Husk and Niffty are vulnerable enough as it is.

But what Alastor lacks in indomitability, he makes up for in acuity.

Alastor thinks it’s laughable that Valentino underestimates him so.

He may be younger, but his erudite mind is as sharp as a tack. He didn’t claw his way out of the bayou just to bend over backward for posturing little shits like Valentino, after all.

The choice is surprisingly easy.

* * *

Angel arches his back when he feels the shifting on the bed and the initial dusting of breath on his cheek. He can smell the man’s cologne, woody and sharp enough to pique his arousal even more. He also scents mint, like mouthwash, and it tickles him at how prosaic the detail is, in the grand scheme of things.

A stupid, quixotic idea threatens to strangle him.

He daydreams of romantic, mundane things: fresh coffee lingering in the open air of a shared kitchen; a warm press of lips to his cheek; the wayward finger smudging the newspaper’s text; quiet endearments on a late Sunday morning.

His breath traps in his throat. Valentino can’t give him any of that. He knows that, viscerally. What he doesn’t know is why he still stays.

Especially if those things are exactly what he wants.

When the man finally kisses Angel, it’s to no fanfare and little else. He doesn’t pause and thrust his tongue inside, he doesn’t linger to nibble at his lips. The man is sparsely utilitarian and kisses him close-mouthed. It’s the most vanilla kiss that Angel has experienced in his short lifespan, but it is by far the sweetest, the most delicate.

He preens.

At least tell me your name, he thinks he moans as the man disengages.

Lend me that, at the very least.

The man doesn’t answer. He slides off and away, back into his own life, Angel presumes. His heart fractures, a hairline. He pictures a wife, two kids, a picket fence.

It is completely, astonishingly wrong.

Angel won’t know for years.

Alastor won’t either.

The moment is trapped in the dusty cobwebs and recesses of memory.

What would be the point in bringing it up now?

* * *

As Valentino recited the memory and pieces started to fall into place, Angel turned on Alastor, furious.

“That was _you_?”

He spent his early twenties searching for the unknown man, only to repeatedly trip and tumble down into failure. At least, up until he hit twenty-three and found an ad online about an available room in a house not far from his last abode.

Alastor, for his part, looked somewhat remorseful. Angel growled at him.

“I fuckin’ knew it! Goddamit, Al, why didn’t ya say somethin’ earlier?”

Guiltily, he met Angel’s glare. “What gave it away?”

“Cedarwood and spice, babe.”

His anger melted away at Alastor’s low chuckle. He sidled close to him, away from Valentino, and curled his body around him. Angel’s arms snaked around his torso as he latched onto him.

“I don’t think I ever wanted anyone more,” came his hushed admission from Alastor’s left. “I think I loved ya before I knew ya.”

Angel stuttered in another deep breath. “You were it, for me. You were always it, Al.”

Alastor softened at the admission. He brought Angel’s hand up to his lips, placing a kiss dead center.

Newspapers and coffee, Angel thinks giddily.

Lazy Sunday mornings.

Alastor softened, just for a second, before Valentino elbowed in, making his presence known again.

“Oh Angel Cakes,” he cooed, “no need to lie to the man.”

He smirked, cloyingly saccharine.

“He knew you as the village bicycle long before you spread your legs for him.”

Alastor ripped himself from Angel’s embrace and _tore_ into him.

Angel wasn’t sure how Alastor obtained those knives in that short a time unless he was already concealing it on his person, but he did register the wet sound as the implement lodged itself inside Valentino’s body.

_Where the fuck was he even hiding that?_

As the waitstaff rightly panicked, Angel thought, amidst the screaming and cursing: That’s it. I can’t take him anywhere.

* * *

At present, he’s weaving stitches through the worst of the cuts.

Alastor hisses as Angel pierces a sensitive area. As he finishes up, he sighs against Alastor’s back.

“Baby, thank you for tryin’ to protect my virtue. But honestly? Fuck Val. He just wants to get a rise outta ya. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Alastor says nothing. Foolishly, Angel thinks this as acquiescence.

He is utterly wrong.

Alastor faces him so fast, one of the stitches threatens to tear.

“You’re going to tell me where his surveillance stretches. Then, we’re going to position ourselves at the premier vantage point so that he can watch. I want him to have front row seats to the main event.”

Angel tilts his head, furrowing his brow.

“Main event?”

Alastor leans in, poised to strike. Angel shivers as his dark eyes canvass over his body in an unsettling, stripping leer.

“This time, I’m going to fuck you in front of him.”

* * *

(Rewind)

Alastor effectively forgets the incident and about him until years later, when the selfsame man stands before him, asking about rent and the roommate vacancy, and then suggesting a blowjob.

“No,” he nervously laughs as it hits him suddenly, like bricks.

“Anthony,” he had said earlier, extending his hand during the introduction. “Friends and clients call me Angel Dust.”

That’s right, Alastor thinks. How could he have forgotten?

He orbits closer to him, invading his personal space, ignoring the five-foot bubble that he usually cultivates. The scent is a slap to the face.

Roses and vanilla.

“Your loss,” he purrs.

Alastor wholeheartedly agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Angel, stop dating bad men
> 
> 2\. I am trying so hard to keep this fic at the M rating but there’s a chapter that I’m working on that cannot (and will not), in any way, be anything but E


	4. Al and Angel Make a Porno (Alastor/Angel Dust & others, Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights, camera, action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Demon(TM), who wondered about the existence of a webcam broadcast early on.

(Muffled noises)

The camera flickers on. The view shows what appears to be a bedroom. It is unremarkable like it was purposely wiped clean and censored of any personal taste. Blue sheets and pillows on the bed, white walls. No pictures.

Man 1: Is this thing on? Testing, testing!

Man 2: Stop fuckin’ with it, babe. It’s on.

A face comes into view. His pretty, freckled visage lights up as he smiles at the camera. He puckers his pink lips and blows a kiss to the viewers. The strap falls off his shoulder as he performs the gesture. He winks.

Man 2: Hey babes and bitches! It’s your favorite stripper and camwhore, Angel Dust! Thanks for tunin’ into my monthly broadcast, as always. Be sure to keep up your memberships and tell all your horny friends to subscribe! As requested, I brought back my favorite-

Man 1: Only.

Angel: My _only_ lover, and he’ll be performin’ with me tonight. Ain’t that right, babe?

Man 1: (Sighing) Right. Let’s get this over with.

Angel: (Pouting, then snarling) Well, if you’re gonna act like that, then ya don’t hafta fuckin’ do it, I can just find another-

Another face, this one bespectacled. Half of it is covered with a face mask: black and adorned with a creepy, cartoonish smile. Dark eyes, dark hair. He’s dressed, unlike his partner, looking like he’s stepped out of a corporate office, and stumbled headfirst onto an amateur porn set. However, he exudes a wave of confidence, apparent even through the visual medium, and therefore does not look out of place at all. In fact, it feels like he is meant to be there, as if his place is always meant to be next to the other man.

He detaches his face mask, peeling the elastic band from one ear, affording the camera a brief glimpse of his profile, and leans in.

The swiftness in the way he kisses him, and the brutality of it, is unnerving but incredibly arousing. He claims Angel’s mouth with barbaric familiarity as if this action is not the first time he performs it, and it will never be the last. The way that Angel parts his lips in supplication and gasps around his is proof: this is Angel Dust’s real lover.

Somehow, that makes it much more enticing.

He pulls away after reattaching the elastic around his ear and leans his forehead against Angel’s. The gesture appears sweet until he murmurs:

“Say that again, darling, and punishment _will_ follow. I can promise you that.”

The way he purrs the threat is louche, finite, and fucking electrifying. Angel, shivering onscreen, seems to agree.

Angel: A- _baby_ …

Man 1: Say it like we rehearsed, dear.

Angel: Yes, _daddy_.

Daddy: Good boy.

He shifts on the bed, anticipatory, and leans back on a stack of pillows. Angel moves to face him and turns his back to the camera. He strips off his top leisurely as if to tease, but it seems to have little effect on its intended audience. The man sits calmly: legs crossed, still fully clothed, watching him with mirthful eyes. The top slinks off, unveiling a broad expanse of freckled skin. A faint metallic zip is the only indication that Angel undoes his fly. As he shimmies it down, the man’s hands dart out. His fingers hook around the belt buckle loops of the tight jeans. Gripping them around the denim, he pulls Angel closer, then yanks them halfway down his thighs.

The reveal exposes red, pinstriped panties in an attractive cut. His hands swiftly cover the pattern as he cups Angel’s ass.

Angel moans, audibly loud.

“Daddy,” from what little the viewers can see of his face, looks inordinately pleased, judging by the upturned corners of his eyes.

The chatbox floods with requests and tokens. The man inclines his head towards the screen, and Angel mirrors him. He sighs and moves towards the laptop, but not before the man wedges his finger in between his cheeks. He languidly trails it up the pinstriped pattern.

Angel: A- _Daddy_ , fuck.

Daddy: (Mockingly) Second strike.

Angel disengages from their tangle as he lies back to completely shimmy out of his jeans.

Angel: (Sassily but fondly) Only you would make a baseball reference, babe. What’re we aimin’ for? Third or fourth?

Daddy: Home run, dear heart.

Angel rolls his eyes as his face closes in on the camera. Due to the vantage point, his face obscures the man’s entire body, but vague noises in the background suggest that he is similarly engaging in the act of undressing.

Angel: (Reading out loud) **Sex Bob-omb** wants ya to eat me out, then to spank me with the ridin’ crop.

Daddy: Tell her no. Last time, you forgot the safe word entirely. I’d rather not have a repeat performance.

To his credit, he does sound contrite. Angel relents and reads out different suggestions, all of which are, more or less, denied by his lover.

Angel: **Stolas** says he wants ya to dominate-

Daddy: (Sharply) No.

He releases a long-suffering groan.

Daddy: Is it possible to block someone? Permanently ban them? From life?

Angel: _For_ life.

Daddy: I said what I said, dear.

Angel: _No_. If it ain’t warranted, no ban.

The man mumbles something that sounds like “Oh, it’s warranted” but that could also be due to static. Angel ignores him to continue reading.

Angel: (Squinting) **Lil’ Darlin** is requestin’ for me to ride ya, and for ya to fill me up with your…

Daddy: What.

Angel: (Stifling his laughter) Baby batter.

Angel looks past his shoulder, gifting the audience with an unencumbered view of his lover, now stripped of all clothing, save for the boxers draped across his lap and the ever-present face mask. The man huffs out a breath, glaring at the ceiling.

Daddy: Fine. But I expect some form of recompense.

Angel turns back to the screen. Clacking ensues.

Angel: She says, “Deal, in the next week or so.”

More tokens drop from faceless contributors, and late subscribers enter the chat.

Angel: (Openly laughing) Babe, **F &R **wants to let ya know that you’re a shameless reprobate and that **Video** closed the browser so fast she thinks he sprained his finger.

Daddy: Tell her I accept the title sincerely and with great aplomb. Inform her that I care very little about what he decides to do, as long as it’s not within six degrees of me.

Angel’s fingers resume their sprint across the keyboard. A “ding” chimes in the background, which prompts Angel to stop reading, and to stare at his partner.

Daddy: Dear, concentrate on your task. It’s just that witless, aforementioned simpleton. Seems like someone else is reciting to the unwilling a play by play.

Angel reverts to his original task, shrugging. After answering all the comments, he directs his focus back to his partner. He assumes the position on his hands and knees and stalks towards him.

Angel: Daddy, ain’t ya wanna punish me yet? We can make it two strikes, I’m okay with that.

His lover’s eyes are lit up in malice, or a close relative of it.

Daddy: Dear, if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so already.

Angel basks under the veiled minatory statement.

He crawls on the sheets until his lips reach his lover’s mask.

Angel: (Barely audible) Promise?

His hands, gripping Angel’s ass, slide down his pinstriped panties in response. He exposes Angel’s pink, lubricated hole. Screens across the globe light up with the sight of his long fingers circling the puckered rim. An index finger dips inside.

The viewers single-handedly miss his answer.

* * *

Angel whips off the briefs that conceal his partner’s cock, and the chat room inundates again with reaction.

He fields most of the comments but inserts a slice-of-life tidbit for the curious subscribers.

Angel: Daddy thought he was average since the porn his friends made him watch were all guys his size or smaller. An’ I’m an advocate of, “It ain’t the size, it’s whatchu do with it.” But when ya got both, ain’t _that_ a match made in heaven?

Daddy: (Slapping a palm to his forehead) Darling. Can you not.

Angel: _Je veux te sucer la bite_. Am I sayin’ that right?

Daddy: Angel.

Angel: **F &R **said, “Bloody hell.” **Lil’ Darlin** wrote, “Yes. Yes. Yes. When can I come over?” **Sex Bob-omb** typed, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Daddy: Third strike. Get over here and swing your legs over my head.

Angel hesitates, lingering on the envious comments and abundance of tokens.

Daddy: (Quietly) Darling, you’ve cleaned yourself so thoroughly and you haven’t eaten since this morning. _Please_ come here, so I can take care of you.

Angel’s mismatched blue-green eyes turn glassy. He bites his lower lip and releases a shaky breath.

Angel: Yes, daddy.

* * *

Angel’s lover eats his ass out with unmatched enthusiasm. Angel tries to rival his fervor with his mouth, but the size and angle only allow his throat entrance so far. He gags around the other man’s cock.

The man leisurely scissors in two fingers as he breaks from tonguing Angel. At this point, it’s excessively slippery and easy, but both Angel and his lover don’t seem to care. They appear to forget that they are presenting themselves in front of mass media until the man winks and jerks his head towards the camera. He pinches Angel’s ass, commanding his attention.

Most of his face is obscured by Angel’s thigh, but those eternally smiling eyes are haunting. 

Daddy: Time for a change in scenery, don’t you find?

Angel: (Gasping) Whatever ya want, daddy.

Daddy: Give me a moment to sit up, my dear. Then, I want you to straddle me.

Angel: (Breathily) Yes, daddy.

* * *

The man swivels the camera downward, closer to them, and the screen shakes and jostles as he adjusts the focus. Earlier, after servicing Angel, he returned the mask to its rightful place, the macabre grin taunting the audience.

He spreads Angel’s cheeks outwards towards the lens so that the audience can witness the superior view of his cock sliding in and out of Angel’s ass. The tattoo is blurry and smeared with what looks to be concealer and foundation, but with all the kneading and the thrusting, the word “property” in black letters is visible.

There appears to be an outline of a heart surrounding it, but it’s difficult to tell in the sparse lighting.

The squelching noises from the lube and languid thrusting slither through the speakers, but Angel’s moans overpower those filthy sounds. The man’s breathy gasps add to the iniquitous harmonics.

“Ah,” Angel breathes as he arches his back.

Even through the mask, the sibilant voice encourages, “Come, darling. Come for _me_. Come for _daddy_.”

It is inevitable.

The loss of composure, the abdication of control, the Big Bang, _la petite mort_.

Angel’s hips stutter as he comes, his freckled ass milking the cock inside him. There is a moment when he releases, and his hips stop working completely. The man removes his hand, lifting it to Angel’s face, then gently caressing his jawline. The gesture mostly occurs off-screen due to the tricky angle, but the minuscule bit that is snagged on camera is surprisingly tender.

Angel murmurs something, but it is inaudible and incomprehensible to the viewers.

Judging by the other man’s response, it seems paramount.

After the short respite, he places his hand back to Angel’s ass and squeezes.

“Let’s go, darling. Make daddy proud.”

Angel gasps, audible once more. He lifts his hips, exposing every inch of the man’s shaft, wetly covered in a sheen of lubricant and spit, only to work himself back down. At first, he slowly fucks himself on the man’s cock, before picking up speed and perfecting a punishing rhythm. His hole swallows up his partner’s cock as he obeys the command.

The man’s fingers dig into his cheeks as he tenses, barely visible onscreen. Only the most hawk-eyed of viewers catch it.

He pushes Angel’s hips down to the base of his cock. He curses, the mask muffling the slur, as he comes. A drawn-out moan succeeds the swear. His face isn’t visible, but Angel collapses on top of him, clearly prompted by an unseen clue. He pins his lover to the bed, enveloping his body with his.

One viewer claims to hear the soft sounds of kissing in the background. The others, typing with one hand, tell him he’s full of shit.

Either way, the man’s cock eventually slips out of Angel, glistening lewdly onscreen. Angel’s back again becomes visible as he pushes himself upright. The hands return and wind around his ass. They cup his cheeks and pull them apart.

The viewers are graced with the most gratuitous shot of the evening, and those who were typing certainly were not doing so now.

The puckered pink hole pulses as come dribbles down his perineum and onto his balls.

Angel whimpers, shielding his face by burying it in the man’s shoulder.

Speaking through the grinning mask and leaning closer to the camera, he says, “Don’t be shy, my dear. It’s never shameful to show who you belong to.”

Angel, moved by silver-tongued persuasion, peers over his shoulder. He looks a wreck: mascara running down in tracks, lipstick smeared all over his mouth, and body flushed an attractive rose. The man nuzzles his cheek.

“Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one!”

Angel cracks one. It’s so fond and full of affection, that it’s hard to peel away from.

“ _Merci beaucoup_ to everyone tuning in tonight! Next month will be much more fruitful than the last, so be sure to _stay tuned_.”

Before the feed ends, he bestows the audience with one more line:

“And a hearty shout-out to Husker, our good friend!”

Faint yelling and thumping can be heard in the distance as the screen switches to black.

* * *

Meanwhile, across town:

“Jesus fuck, that was hot.”

“Mmm. I wonder if Alastor is fine with Angel doing those sorts of things on camera with another partner. I know that I’d be rather miffed to catch you _in flagrante delicto_ with another man. On webcam, no less!”

“Pen.”

“Yes, love?”

“That _was_ Alastor.”

“Pardon?”

“Fuck. And ya say _I’m_ thick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Chapter title heavily inspired from "Zach and Miri Make a Porno."
> 
> 2\. Je veux te sucer la bite translates roughly to “I want to suck your dick.”
> 
> 3\. Pentious arrived sometime in the middle, missing the whole first half. I’d like to think Valentino and Blitzo were silent viewers, the first due to a warped cucking/anger kink, and the former due to proximity near (in) Stolas at the time.
> 
> 4\. It was either this or fucking on radio, and I’m sure we all know the probability of that.  
> (High)


	5. Fight Pt. 1 (Alastor/Angel Dust + Alastor & Husk, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do we have a deal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Alastor knocks his shoulder as he shoves past. Husk growls but lets him go. The next guy, however, isn’t as lucky. He traps Angel in with his arms.

“What the fuck happened to him?”

Angel, eyes reddened, struggles against Husk’s larger bulk. He reeks of alcohol. Husk should know. He balks at the familiar scent.

“Move, Husk. Lemme go,” he howls, almost shattering his eardrums.

“God fucking dammit,” he bitches, shaking his head. His ear smarts, but he remains put. The freezer door opens, then slams in the kitchen. _That_ causes him to flinch more so than the ear-splitting scream.

“Husk,” Angel whines, switching tactics. Usually, he’s strong and agile enough to wrestle himself out of anything, but tonight, he’s just this side of wasted, losing most of his coordination.

“No. Not until ya tell me what the fuck went on. Why does he”-Husk sticks out his thumb in the direction of the kitchen-“look like that?”

Unfortunately, Angel takes advantage of the gesture and breaks free of the hold. He bolts down the short hallway with Husk cursing at his heels.

They round the corner to the kitchen where Alastor faces them, glowering. He holds a packet of frozen peas to the side of his head. The bottom of his right eye near his cheekbone looks red and swollen. Husk ascertains the formation of a black eye in the coming days. The knuckles on his left hand are crimson, two of them bleeding. His right hand appears relatively unscathed, except for the scrapes lining his wrist. Spots of blood pepper his shirt, but surveying his body, Husk is sure that it’s not his.

Angel takes a hesitant step towards him. Alastor bares his teeth.

Here it goes, Husk thinks.

“What on earth were you _thinking_? Pray tell, were you even doing so?”

“It ain’t my fault, Al! I told ya, those assholes were lookin’ for trouble! Ya know how douches can get! They was hittin’ on me and Cherri, and weren’t gettin’ the damn hint! The fuck were we supposed to do?”

Alastor throws up his hands, fist still clenching the frozen package.

“Extricate yourselves from the situation? Bow out gracefully? Not antagonize them further? Refrain from luring one of them into a stall only to kick them between their legs?”

“He had it comin’,” Angel scoffs, crossing his arms.

* * *

This is how Alastor ended up fighting five guys.

Cherri informed him of the matter beforehand, just as he was readying to pick Angel up from the club. He sighed as he slotted the key in the ignition, listening to Cherri drunkenly ramble on. He understood the main gist of it, and she answered his concern regarding Angel’s well-being to his satisfaction.

“They’re waiting where?”

It had been a long night at the studio, what with Blitzo’s incessant bemoaning and Moxxie’s scathing retorts. The new intern, Angel’s coworker Loona, preferred fiddling on her phone to abating the flames, so it was up to Millie to play peacemaker. Suffice to say, it did not work.

To say Alastor was in a right snit when he parked the car would have been an understatement.

He texted Angel, informing him of his arrival. True to form, his boyfriend’s snarling visage appeared from the exit.

Followed by five men.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He let his head fall back into the headrest. He allowed himself ten seconds to compose his thoughts, then opened the car door.

Here goes nothing, he thought, a touch sullenly.

Barely a second after he locked the door, a grating voice yelled out, “This bitch belong to you?”

Unfortunately yes, came the automatic thought. He leveled a calm look at the instigator. Alastor detested these types: dripping in machismo with nothing to show for it.

“Yes. I’d like to take him home if it’s all the same to you.”

He turned his attention towards Angel.

“Where is Cherri?”

“Pen picked her up.”

Of course, he thought bitterly. Leave it Angel to use his body to distract the louts so that Cherri could safely leave. The disregard Angel often had for his own safety agitated Alastor to no end. He glared.

Angel cast his eyes down, sheepish. At least his thoughts were conveyed adequately. He adjusted his glasses as the men squared him up during their silent interaction. The main troglodyte decided it was the best time to spout off, again.

“It sure fuckin’ ain’t. This fuckin’ bitch was mouthin’ off to my friends! All we did was buy ‘em drinks and dance a little”-Angel snorted-“and your cheatin’ little slut then promised my boy a BJ and the whore never delivered! So fuck him and fuck you. We’re gonna make sure this slut follows through.”

He smirked as if he held the winning hand.

“We’re goin’ to teach your bitch a lesson.”

Now that just won’t do, Alastor thought.

He signaled to Angel, warning him to stand down. Angel looked far from pleased, but he acquiesced, likely due to his inebriated state. His little spitfire could draw blood like the rest of them, but he was drunk, it was late, and Alastor was tired. Ah, well.

Time to liven things up.

He smiled, baring his teeth.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can come to a compromise,” he lied.

* * *

The fist glanced off his face, grazing his cheekbone. He ducked under the flurry of punches, weaving left and right as the uncoordinated fists attempted to land a hit. In a sharp twist of movement, he incapacitated two of them easily, his swift footwork compensating for his thinner frame.

A blow to the knee to cripple, an elbow to the throat to stun, and a strike to the head to concuss. They slammed to the ground with sickening cracks.

Three left.

Grinning, he sidestepped the third’s tackle. Now off-balance, the man flailed as he hit the pavement. Alastor, taking advantage of every possible situation, delivered a sharp kick to his head. Even Angel flinched at the sound.

Two.

He allowed both of them to inch closer, sacrificing his torso to a couple of blows to draw them in. He dodged the intended one to his solar plexus, and wound his right fist-

Only to surprise him with his left.

Pain shot through his knuckles as the other man collapsed comically backward. Luckily for him, he landed on his side. Unluckily for him, the gravel blossomed with blood.

Four down. One to go.

He focused his attention on the last standing man, ignoring the throbbing in his cheek and the numbness spreading in his hand.

Alastor smiled.

Shaking uncontrollably, the man turned tail and ran.

Sighing, Alastor cradled his left hand. He abhorred chasing prey. It took the fun out of most things. The lone conscious man groaned as Alastor prodded him with his shoe.

“My dear fellow, I wouldn’t move too much. Your collarbone is most likely fractured, and you appear to be suffering from a mild concussion.”

“Al, should we call an ambulance? They ain’t movin’. Much.”

“That was the _point_ , Angel. In any case, I’m sure they’ll be right as rain once they walk it off.”

“Babe, I’m not sure they’ll be able to walk after this. I ain’t sure that one’s even _alive_.”

“Stop exaggerating. His chest is still moving. Although that could be death throes. Anyway, it’s late, and I’d very much like to go home. Do fill me in as to what prompted this mess.”

“Babe, I’m sorry-”

“Get in the car, Angel.”

He belatedly surveyed the security cameras propped up on each corner of the roof. Pushing his anger aside, for the time being, he jotted a mental note to text Vox later.

He hated owing that man a favor, but needs must.

* * *

As he recounts the story, Husk winces in commiseration. Alastor’s got a mean left hook. He’s had the misfortune of experiencing it once or twice while blackout drunk.

Nothing sobers you up quicker than a blow to the gut.

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the part of his brain that glued stuck during that fantastic retelling. It’s his excuse as to why verbal diarrhea spills from his mouth.

“Lemme get this straight, Al. Ya took on five guys for Angel? Dunno about you, kid, but that’s damn romantic. Worth at least a solid fuck.”

Alastor narrows his eyes. “There’s nothing romantic about idiocy and its prevention.”

“Prevention? Ya think we wanted those assholes to feel us up? Fuck off with that shit.”

“It may be all Greek to you, but there exists a concept called ‘de-escalation.’ You should try it sometime.”

“The fuck do ya think I was doin’? Kept the heat off Cherri, didn’t I?”

During the most inopportune moment of the night, Niffty emerges from his room, rubbing her eyes. She yawns once before the situation sinks in. Her eyes widen. Husk mouths, “Mom and Dad are fighting” as exaggerated as possible. She nods and quietly slinks back inside. Incensed as they are, neither party notices her.

“You offered him fellatio,” he hisses through teeth. “From where I stand, that’s entrapment.”

“Fuck off, Al. It ain’t like I actually sucked him off.”

Alastor scoffs. “We don’t know-”

He stiffens just as Angel’s face contorts with shock, then rage. Husk’s jaw drops to the floor.

For once, he and Angel are on the same page.

“Ya got some fuckin’ nerve.”

Angel’s voice wavers unsteadily. He sways, disoriented from drink, and catches himself on the island. Alastor moves to touch him, but he jerks back, shaking his head. Alastor sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Angel. It’s been a long night.” His shoulders droop slightly. Husk sees Angel soften, a mite. The kid catalogs his boyfriend’s injuries, chewing the inside of his cheek.

For a split second, everything veers towards serenity.

Up until the point when Alastor shoves his foot so far into his mouth, it probably hits his tonsils on its way down his throat.

“And even if you chose to, it is entirely within your autonomy, since I hold no claim to your body! It’s not like this arrangement is exclusive by any means…”

Husk, by virtue of being friends with Alastor for such a long time, knows when his friend is lying through his teeth. Alastor is a possessive little fucker, but God help him, he’s _trying_ with Angel. The spiel is all bluster as he feigns nonchalance. He’s desperately trying to act like he cares less than what he truly does.

It backfires stupendously.

He doesn’t want to look at Angel, knowing what he’ll find, but he also can’t bear witness to Alastor’s dumbassery any longer.

He regrets it immediately.

Angel’s face is a canvas of unadulterated hurt and confusion. Alastor arrives at the same conclusion as Husk when he sees the devastation painted there.

“Relationship,” he corrects with too much force, too late.

And:

“Is it?”

Angel flips him off, turns on his heel, and storms up the stairs. They both wince at the force of the door slam. An awkward silence ensues.

Husk breaks it.

“Drink?”

Alastor groans, gingerly placing the frozen pack against his head.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

The night sky is lousy with stars. Every possible constellation and its permutations gleam in that reverse ocean, the pitch dark vacuum of space. Husk wonders how astronomers see it; if they see it differently than the rest of the plebeians, canvassing the sky in search of discovery, and replacing romance with practicum and data.

He’s pretty sure that’s how Alastor’s mind works.

He pours them another drink from the small bottle. They dragged out a couple of chairs prior since the usual lawn chairs were being loaned out to his bosses for some kind of pretentious garden party. It’s anyone’s guess as to why Frankie and Rosie adore Alastor’s taste in interior and, he supposes, exterior design. Husk couldn’t care less. His idea of decorating includes a cozy and a coaster for his drink. That’s about as far as it extends.

He addresses Alastor without turning to face him, mimicking the way straight repressed men tend to.

“Ya know, for someone so well-read, ya can be so fucking dense.”

“I’m well aware. Now, at least.” Husk hears the frown in his voice and glances over to see Alastor rotating his glass.

“What is this, again? It’s mellower than vodka but sharper than sake.”

Husk turns the bottle so that the label faces him.

“ _Soju_ , pal. Korean liquor. Niffty picked some up from the market today. Ya know she’s balls deep into that K-pop shit.”

Alastor wrinkles his nose. “Crude.” He sniffs and takes another generous swig. When he finishes, he taps his glass with his fingers. Husk huffs and refills it.

At this rate, he’ll be dead weight in an hour. Might as well get into it now.

“Real talk, pal. Ya like the kid, I can tell. Ain’t gonna say the other word, else it’ll scare ya off, but facts are facts. Problem is, ya can’t keep acting like how you’re used to. It’s a way different ball game, the one you’re playing.”

He crooks his head in Husk’s general direction.

“Is it? I haven’t noticed,” he sarcastically replies. Husk flips him off in response.

“I mean, if ya had to pick someone to stick with, endgame wise-don’t look at me like that-I’m assuming it’ll be the kid?”

“Do you see any other prospects,” he asks, dryly. Husk huffs.

“Okay, fuck you. I can never get a clear fucking answer from you, so maybe I’ll take your advice and go fuck myself,” he says. Husk moves to stand, but a hand on his arm impedes him from completing the action.

“It’s no contest,” he quietly admits. “Of course it was always…of course, it would be Angel.”

Husk sits back down.

Alastor has never been able to vocalize feelings of his own, like despair, longing, or love. Husk has known the asshole for far longer than he’d readily admit, but due to that proximity, he can’t fault his friend’s quirks. Lord knows he has some of his own, and they’re probably too acerbic and less charming to be categorized as such. As far as Husk is concerned, Alastor has always been emotionally stunted when it came to expressing his feelings, as strange as that sounds. Radio host or no, his friend can’t verbalize his feelings to save his life. Husk sympathizes. He has the added bonus of alcohol to ease the way, after all.

“I’m so out of my element, Husker. It’s frankly embarrassing,” he murmurs, rotating the glass in his hands. “It’s like knowing that for your whole life, two plus two is four, only to be told that there’s been a fundamental change in truth and that two plus two is now equal to five.”

Husk chuckles. “Reject evidence of your eyes and ears. Most essential command, am I right?”

Alastor shoots him a scathing look. “You know what I mean. Everything I know has been upturned on its head. Is that what this is?”

Out of respect or deference, Husk doesn’t label it. What he does say is:

“Whatever the fuck, I’m sure it’ll benefit ya both if ya said this to the kid rather than to my sad old ass. If I learned anything from Niffty over the years, it’s that communication is key. Key to what? No fucking idea. My ass, probably.”

Alastor laughs despite the crassness. Husk observes his friend’s increasingly sloppy movements.

“He’s probably sleeping,” Alastor laments. “Couch again for me, I think.”

“That’s what ya get for selling his bed and making your room into a study. Pretty sure you’re the one who preached never to mix business with pleasure, or pleasure with leisure. How’s that crow tasting?”

He reaches over and punches him in the arm. Alastor laughs, grabbing his hand and twisting his fingers back. They giggle as it devolves into pokes and jabs.

Alastor smiles, genuine now. “It tastes disgusting,” he declares.

Husk returns the expression, squeezing his friend’s arm. Together, they watch the stars and the moon’s inevitable path across the sky.

* * *

Husk opens his eyes at the ass crack of dawn, taking care not to wake Niffty. His hands shake something fierce. Regardless, he leans over and kisses her on the forehead. She stirs a little but slumbers on. He ignores the constriction of his heart.

He pads out into the hallway, wincing at the bright morning light. He scratches his crotch as he ambles under the arch and into the kitchen. As he fumbles with the cap on the vodka handle, a hazy memory flashes through his head. He peers towards the direction of the couch, downing his drink.

Bastard’s probably still camped out there, he thinks while cracking his neck. Curious, Husk tiptoes closer to the living room.

What he finds, in retrospect, is nothing less than expected.

Alastor faces the couch, curled in blankets on the floor. A stack of pillows lay under his head. The couch, however, holds another person entirely.

Angel faces Alastor, lightly snoring and bundled under a sheet. His head rests on the arm of the couch. Everything is fairly unremarkable and innocuous with the exception of one minor thing.

Angel’s arm drapes over the side of the couch. His hand clasps Alastor’s in a loose grip, both of which are firmly settled over Alastor’s heart.

* * *

The noise from the pans slamming into the sink and the ensuing Italian swearing is enough to make a grown man cry. He’s starving as all get out and was promised a meal, but _someone_ decided that store-bought eggs weren’t good enough for Nonna’s ravioli. It is now nine o’clock in the evening and Husk feels his stomach begin to slowly cannibalize itself.

“Al, I swear to fuck I’m going to kill your boyfriend.”

Alastor lolls his head to the side.

“Is that a promise?” comes the tired question.

“Fuck you, Al!”

Angel’s voice pierces through the living room as the smell of butter and herbs waft alongside it.

The words are caustic, but his face gives the plot away. Angel looks at Alastor with a sickeningly fond expression. Alastor answers back with an equally adoring gaze, black eye notwithstanding.

Husk thinks back to his own tumultuous relationship with Niffty.

About second chances. Friendships.

He reminisces about hands clasped over hearts.

Fair deal, he thinks, grinning.

Fair fucking deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Here comes Alastor with the dirty lickins
> 
> 2\. Alastor and Husk, in their inebriated states, (inadvertently, in Alastor's case) reference the novel, 1984 by George Orwell. The full quotes are: “In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it” and “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”
> 
> 3\. I live for platonic male friendship. Keeps me afloat in these trying times.
> 
> 4\. Next up: partying, bitching, fighting. Probably in that order.
> 
> Edit: Bitching, _then_ partying, and fighting.


	6. Tribunal (Alastor & Vox & Rosie + Lucifer, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer's first meeting (with these assholes)

“I fail to see why I’m needed for this forum,” he grouses. The lenses of his glasses catch the overhead lights, obscuring his glare.

“Alastor dear, you’re one of the most vital members in this ragtag coterie. Your presence is mandatory for all our congregations.”

“Stop bitchin’. At least you’re able to represent yourself. Ain’t that what got your goat last time? Anyway, got somewhere else to fuckin’ be? Hot date, maybe?”

“I’ll take that as an observation and inquiry. Not as an insult. Tread carefully, Vox. I may not be so magnanimous next time.”

“Fuck off, ya uppity little-”

“Vox. Alastor. You will cease behaving like puerile children else I will-”

“What? Sic Frankie on us? Where is that asshole anyway?”

“Interrupt me again, dear. Go on.”

“You know that old saying, ‘Speak softly but carry a big stick’? I daresay that proverb applies here.”

“The stick you dislodged from your-”

“Ladies,” Lucifer’s unctuous voice rings out. “If the rest of us can get a word in edgewise?”

Reluctantly, they quiet down, but not before the main instigators exchange last jabs.

“Prima donna.”

“Prissy fuckin’ dandy.”

Lucifer clears his throat.

“Now then. On with the show.”

* * *

“All in favor of reassigning Belial’s confiscated territory to Rosie?”

Lucifer surveys the room.

“Excellent. I suppose that concludes this meeting. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

A polite cough. Lucifer sighs.

“Yes, Alastor?”

“Before we wind up this conference, I’d like to suggest either an injunction for persons overstepping their jurisdiction, or discretional punishment for those habitual line-crossers.”

“Please elucidate. In terms of punishment, what would you suggest?”

“Nothing much. A digit or four. A limb or two. Lord knows someone like my colleague, Vox, has an abundance of those lying around.”

“Did you just threaten me? That’s a one-way ticket to fuckin’ prison, dickhead. Or to a hole in the ground.”

“What jury would convict me?”

“Listen here, ya trigger-happy asshole-”

“It was more of a veiled threat than anything, Vox. I’m sure Alastor meant it as a jest.”

“Jest? Ha fuckin’ ha! _That_ was a jest, Rosie. ‘Veiled’ threat? That was about as veiled as a goddamn stripper!”

“ _You_ would know, Vox.”

“Actually, Al would know better than me, now. Ain’t that right, asshole?”

“Alastor, what _does_ he mean by that?”

“You would do best to leave him out of your mouth, or-”

“Or what? Ya gonna threaten me again? You and what fuckin’ army?”

“ _Him_? Oh Alastor, don’t tell me.”

“Rosie doesn’t know? Secrets, secrets, Al. _Commitment_ got your tongue?”

“Alastor! You will stop that this in-will _someone_ restrain him?”

“Holy shit, he’s got a knife! How the fuck did he smuggle it in? Past all the metal detectors?”

“What did I just tell you? Restrain him! Now!”

“We’re tryin’, lady! Fuck. There! Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Not so high and mighty now, huh, asshole? Heard through the grapevine that he’s got a tight bussy. Val’s got a thing for pretty traps. Makes less sense that you’d go for his sloppy seconds just to get your dick wet.”

“Say that again, you infernal snake. I dare you.”

“And you’ll do _what_?”

“Excise your head from your body, for starters.”

“There’s that fuckin’ threat, again.”

“Not a threat, my dear. A _promise._ ”

“ _Hold_ him, dammit! Guy’s a fuckin’ demon, man!”

“Ow, shit!”

“Holy fuck! He just shanked Carl!”

“Man down! Man down! There a medic here?”

“ _Medic_? Are you aware of where you are? Bloody hell. Can you even tell your arse from your elbow, or is that wishful thinking?”

“Lady, your friend just shanked my friend! Sliced him open like a piñata!”

“We have a hearse. That’s as good as you’re going to get, I’m afraid.”

(Indiscriminate snarling and spitting. Thuds hitting the floor.)

“Fuck, okay. Okay. Got ‘im. Jesus, lady, he’s stronger than he looks!”

“Squirmy bastard.”

“If you’d be so kind as to _release_ me, gentlemen. I have unfinished business with this cad.”

“Go ahead and let him go. I’m sure his little trap boyfriend will shed tears when I send him back in separate boxes.”

“Vox! Stop antagonizing him! For Christ’s sake-I _said_ , hold him back!”

Lucifer drops his head in his hands.

“I need a fucking drink.”


	7. Saturday Night (Alastor/Angel Dust & Friends, Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and drugs

“Is...is that Alastor leaning back on that wall over there?”

Vaggie shouts loudly enough to slice through the roaring techno music blasting from the speakers overhead. They had shuffled to a quieter corner earlier, as quiet as a space in a crowded club could be, huddling like packed sardines in the fog and under the neon lights. The strobes bisect the smoke, obnoxiously blinding the ravers, who don’t seem to care one iota.

Husk gingerly lifts his foot from the sticky floor and groans. He places his drug of choice to his lips and drinks deeply.

Fuck this, he thinks. But most of all, fuck Alastor and fuck Angel.

Who both seem to be doing just that.

“Is Angel giving him a fucking blowjob? In the middle of the goddamn club?” Vaggie bellows, hysterical.

To their credit, no one seems to be paying much attention, as fucked out of their minds as they all are. During raves, apparently, everything goes. Husk is unconvinced. His brain can’t comprehend the fact that his prudish friend of years is lifting the hemline of his shirt to allow their other roommate easy access to his dick. His other hand cards through Angel’s hair, encouraging him to swallow him to the root. Judging by everyone’s breathy gasps, it’s a train wreck that they refuse to look away from.

A smoking hot train wreck, but a wreck nevertheless.

“Oh wow. Angel’s got talent, huh, to be able to take _that_ inside his mouth,” Charlie squeaks out, blushing.

“Not to mention deep throat it! Jeez Louise, Husk, no wonder you didn’t want him to join, not that yours is small babe, it’s just, wowie! I didn’t mean it like that though. Oh, that didn’t come out right, sorry baby-”

Husk graciously ignores his girlfriend’s incessant babbling while polishing off his drink. His roommates don’t cease their exhibitionist ministrations even as a sprightly girl decides to wiggle around them, oblivious to the lewdness. Her joysticks glow as she weaves them through her fingers, bending her wrists in a frantic dance of light.

Everything looks a bit ritualistic and more than a tad carnal.

Husk reaches for his hidden flask.

He’s going to need something to scour the memories, while he’s at it.

* * *

He circles back to earlier that night:

Husk wonders how the fuck their house became ground zero for this brand of distilled chaos. One minute, he’s enjoying a nice libation. The next, a hoard of harpies disguised as women mow him down in a sprint to the refrigerator. The glass is knocked from his hand. Husk sees his life flash before him, what Alastor would call a goddamn “picture show” before murdering him in cold blood.

A hand deftly snatches the glass out of the air.

Angel smirks at him, twirling it in his fingers. Husk swears the kid must have sold his soul to the devil for that sort of limberness.

“Fuck. Thanks, kid. Close call. Two seconds from assisted suicide, if ya get my drift.”

“Ridin’ the pale horse?”

“Pushing daisies.”

“Snuffed out.”

“Meet your maker?”

“Goddammit, don’t you broads ever shut up?”

Niffty sticks out her tongue. “Grumpy jerk,” she says.

Presently, she’s infuriating, but that doesn’t stop affection from welling up inside him. Others more romantic than he would probably liken it to the ebb and flow of the tide in a cove, or rain collecting in a forest pond. Husk, unsentimental misanthrope as he is, instead compares the feeling to a toilet tank filling up with water via a working flow valve.

If that’s not fucking romantic, he doesn’t know what is.

The plastic crinkles as Charlie opens the ice cream packet. Angel tosses the glass inside the sink, before sauntering over to the fridge and grabbing a beer. Vaggie hops up onto the island, swinging her legs as she pries the lid off a container. It’s either full of Alastor’s jambalaya, the neighbor’s _pancit_ , or Angel’s mom’s _lasagne_. He can’t tell from the outside. They pack all their food in the same plastic containers because Alastor refuses to budge on the most mundane matters due to his housewife tendencies. It’s exasperating, to say the least. He’s sure that Angel shares the same sentiment, but likes dick too much to protest.

Vaggie finagles it open. Wrong on all counts.

It’s Niffty’s _omurice_.

Not for the first time, Husk wonders why one of his primary vices had to be gambling. The odds are hardly ever in his favor. He introduces his palm to his forehead and slides it down his face.

“I’m guessing your sleepover thing went well?”

“Girls’ night,” Angel corrects.

“What-the-fuck-ever.”

“Yep! And turns out, we found out so much about each other!” Charlie rocks on her heels, taking a periodic rest from the momentum to nibble on her ice cream.

Husk hates himself for it, but her enthusiasm is unparalleled and Niffty shoots him a glare and a head jerk that can’t be mistaken for anything else, so he asks:

“Like what?”

Charlie flushes, so Vaggie answers for her. “Al and Angel are apparently kinky as all get out.”

Bless her heart, Niffty hands him a new glass of whisky as he chokes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he babbles before throwing it back.

“ _I_ don’t believe it,” Vaggie insists. “Alastor seems straight-laced as hell.” She gesticulates wildly with her chopsticks. “If they’re so goddamn wild, then what’s Angel’s safe word?”

Angel opens his mouth, but Alastor, having long finished his radio show, walks into the kitchen. Fortuitously, he heard the question.

“Clementine,” they chorus in unison.

Vaggie gapes as Alastor greets Angel with a peck. He folds his hand around Angel’s and extricates the bottle. Superciliously, he faces them as he sips, hand on his hip.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

Angel sends them a sly smile before whipping out a rectangular metal container from the pocket of his shorts. The girls share a knowing grin. Alastor balks.

Husk is irritatingly reminded of a scene prior to this which set the goddamn stage.

* * *

“Husk,” Angel whispered to him one night as he slunk through the kitchen at ass o’clock in the morning. He was hammered after partying all night with Cherri and the other witches he worked with.

“Husk,” he repeated after Husk ignored him.

“Husk. Husk. Husk.”

“God fucking dammit, what?”

“Al’s got a superpower.”

“What in the fuck are ya talking about?”

“His superpower. Wanna know what it is?”

Husk shuddered. “If it’s some goddamn sex thing then I don’t wanna-”

“Al’s immune to whisky dick.”

On one hand, his roommates were aesthetically pleasing. On the other hand, one of them was a homicidal maniac and the other was completely off his rocker.

“Jesus fuck. No! I did not need that info ya fucking di- _no_ , ass- _goddammit_.”

“Think it applies to drugs, too?”

That set Husk to wondering. Alastor, to his knowledge, never cared to partake in illicit drug use, preferring to be in full control of his mind at all times. Husk had never witnessed him with his guard down unless he counted the handful of times he saw him sleeping, which was rare. Even during those instances, he was sure that the fucking sociopath prepared for such an inevitability and carried an ace up his sleeve.

Or most likely, a sharp implement.

He conveyed his thoughts to Angel, who frowned.

“Ya sayin’ he’s some kinda drug virgin?”

Husk snorted. “I’m just saying that I’ve never seen the guy truly plastered. Your man won’t down more than six drinks in a row.”

“To be fair, six drinks in a row is a lot.”

Husk waved off his remark.

“Re-fucking-gardless, he ain't interested. Al’s too much of a pussy to even think about it.”

“I’m too much of a what now?”

Fuck, Husk thought as the devil entered.

“We were just commenting on your distaste for drugs, Al. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“Uncouth to refer to me as such,” he said, bending down exaggeratedly. The height difference pissed him off more than usual. Especially when he did that.

“Just stating facts, pal.”

Alastor hummed. The hairs on the back of Husk’s neck rose with each passing second. He watched as Alastor vacillated between decisions. His eyes flashed behind his glasses, but that could’ve been a trick of the light.

In his own way, Husk cared about Alastor. He did.

That did not mean that he wasn’t scared shitless from time to time. He witnessed firsthand how Alastor liked to settle his accounts. The man had a hair-trigger temper at random times. “Random” being the operative word. Alastor was chaos personified.

Husk bared his teeth, waiting for the shoe to drop as Alastor coolly regarded him. He liked to think his training and experience in the Corps would give him an edge, but knowing the batshit bastard, he might as well be reciting his last rites.

Alastor, ever the changeable asshole, smiled.

“Fair enough!”

Husk’s answering grin was not nearly as convincing. His asshole unpuckered with such startling speed that Husk was sure he could fit the both of them up there.

Alastor hummed under his breath as he meandered towards his boyfriend. As he reached the threshold, he nuzzled his nose against Angel’s and whispered endearments under his breath. Husk stopped listening.

It was all fucking French to him.

After spending an inordinate amount of time on public displays of affection, Alastor turned to Husk.

“I’m not diametrically opposed to illicit participation. As you well know, I _am_ from New Orleans. I hold no particular compunctions.”

Angel perked up, kissing down his throat.

“So baby, how ‘bout we all try it, together? I can hook us up. We can agree on a date, later.”

Alastor deflated as Angel called his bluff. “The what now?”

“Rollin’. Ya know. Ecstasy, molly, MDMA. I know someone who can supply us.”

Husk couldn’t remember the last time he witnessed Alastor being so apprehensive but gentle. The comparison was jarring, to say the least.

“Dear, are you certain that’s what you want to do?”

Angel grinned, cat-like. He nudged into Alastor’s neck, prompting him to match the smile.

“Yeah, babe. Let’s do it. Together.”

Alastor sighed, but fondly.

“As you wish.”

Were Alastor to be honest, he folded the minute he first laid eyes on Angel. And Husk knew something about gambling. He stifled a chuckle, transforming it into a coughing fit as Alastor swiveled his head to glare.

Alastor scowled like he regretted his earlier decision to spare Husk’s life.

Eh, he thought, taking another generous swig.

Nine lives. Eight to go.

* * *

Angel opens the mint canister.

Inside are six innocuously appearing tablets bundled up in a tiny bag. Bright pink and embedded with twin wings, each pill is roughly the size of a fingernail.

“Pink Angels,” he says, winking. “Triple stacked.”

Husk barely catches the cross look that eclipses Alastor’s face, because, in a blink, it’s gone. The traces of a sneer are still evident, however, as well as the stiffness at his shoulders.

“Oh Angel,” he near-snarls. “Those weren’t made _especially_ for you, now were they?”

Angel, to his credit, barks out a laugh. He puffs his chest out as he lifts a brow.

“Jealous?”

Alastor, to his discredit, sneers. He rears back, ready to strike when Angel gently coos, “Babe, Al. _Relax_. Frankie hooked me up with these. Not Val.”

He trickles his fingers down Alastor’s nape, like calming a cat.

“Rosie sends her regards.”

Alastor can’t help but crack a smile. It’s all sickeningly domestic and Husk refuses to watch any more of their rom-com. He growls.

“Can we fucking do it now? It’s almost nine and it’ll take about an hour to hit if we’re lucky. Most of ya ate shit, so you’re fucked until eleven. Let’s do this!”

Angel distributes the pills. Husk downs his immediately, before running to the sink to gulp down water from the faucet. Angel and Niffty follow suit. He chases it down his beer, while Niffty does the same with a glass of water Husk hands to her. Vaggie and Charlie chew theirs for some inexplicable reason, grimacing the whole time.

Husk curls his lip in disgust.

“Dumbasses, ya think chewing it will make that shit hit faster? Either boof it or fucking butch up and quit being pussies, for God’s sake!”

“Language, Husker.”

“Butch? Pussy?” Husk squints. “The Lord’s name?”

Alastor eyes his pill warily. “The first two.”

The faucet creaks on in the background as he retorts, “And why the fuck should I?”

Alastor rounds on him in a pejorative manner. “The first is a slur that Angel and I had the displeasure of hearing recently, and the second, well. I can excuse its misogynistic implication, but to insult felines! The purest of creatures! My dear Husker, that simply won’t do.”

Husk rolls his eyes. Goosebumps begin prickling along his skin, but he’s unsure if it’s due to the drugs or the anticipation. He banks on the latter. He rips into Alastor about censorship, while Angel slips inside the space reserved for him and hands Alastor a glass of water. He plucks the pill from his fingers and pillows it on Alastor’s bottom lip.

“Open.”

Alastor pauses.

Angel, sensing his hesitation, pulls his hand back.

Alastor, sensing Angel’s withdrawal, clamps a hand around his wrist. He brings the pill, and Angel’s fingers, forward.

He closes his lips around them.

The water is unneeded.

Alastor swallows it dry.

* * *

Midnight, the nonexistent clock chimes.

Midnight, and the majority of them are feeling the effects.

At least, from what Alastor observes.

Before they arrived at the venue, the women huddled in the backseats, passing a compact mirror between them. Charlie remarked on their growing pupils. Vaggie nervously giggled while Niffty fidgeted, tittering. The men said nothing. Alastor drove with one hand on the wheel, taking care to mind the turns in Lucifer’s gaudy and impractical car. His other hand clutched the shift, maneuvering it by muscle memory. Angel’s hand encased his wrist, a warm bracelet that Alastor had long accustomed to.

The familiar weight kept him grounded, but not even Alastor was immune.

He ponders this as he clenches his jaw again. He fights down the compelling urge to grind his teeth as waves of euphoria crash in rolling patterns, an unyielding surf battering his body. He shudders as the insidious drug weasels its way into his bloodstream. It lights up his mind like New Year’s Eve.

As serotonin floods his brain, Alastor compares the feeling to falling in lo- _experiencing unprecedented fondness_ for Angel.

There it is: that joie de vivre, the sensation when Angel clenches and shakes around him; the cathartic feeling of finally getting a leg up on-or _from-_ a competitor; the glowing fondness and pride brimming in his chest during a well-executed radio show.

Alastor does not consider himself to be a good or a pious man. He eschewed the dogmatic teachings of his childhood long ago, finding the catechisms and never-ending platitudes tedious at best, and contradictory at the worst. The only habits he keeps are his mother’s. One needs to uphold voodoo tradition, especially if one habitually encounters cadavers.

This, Alastor decides in that blasphemous heart of his, this must be what heaven is like.

“Angel,” he grits out, succumbing. Angel turns, pupils huge and only a sliver of iris visible under the dying streetlights.

“Yeah, babe?”

Husk and most of the women have disappeared into the club. Vaggie stands at attention in the doorway after the man stamps her wrist. She lifts a brow.

Alastor waves her away, indicating as best as he can with his hands that he’ll join them after. He’s at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

No, he thinks. Untrue.

Alastor fears that if he opens his mouth, the unintended ones will flood out. For someone as reserved and carefully curated as Alastor is, this state of intoxication is crippling. He already, unwillingly, is beginning to face emotions he thought he’d buried within the recesses of his heart. The drug is zealously encouraging him to form them into words.

Vaggie nods and walks into the club.

“Al? You were sayin’?”

He can’t do it. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t. He _won’t_. As euphoric as he is right now, those three words catch and lodge in his throat.

In his mind’s eye, he can see Angel accepting the confession under a sheen of disappointment. They’re both inebriated and it reeks of disingenuousness. And Alastor is not ready, not in the least. The drug eggs him on.

Alastor resists. Instead, he kisses Angel under those flickering streetlamps and the buzzing of the neon marquees. Angel enthusiastically returns it, and Alastor savors the skin-on-skin glide of collision, his nerves drumming with static electricity. A passing taxi honks. The city pulses to life around them, glowing under fluorescence and chrome.

Angel, bless his heart, remains oblivious at how close he stands to the truth. Ecstasy, a poor substitute of the real thing, swims in their veins.

Alastor likens it to stars.

In the city, artificial lights act as an umbrella, obscuring them. Miles of lights and ozone contribute to the overcast. Alastor, divorced from his impoverished upbringing, remembers rocking on his tiptoes atop the sandpaper floor of his daddy’s boat and wishing on every shooting star gilding the bayou.

The stars may not always be visible, but they’re there.

They’re present, even in the absence of night.

They always will be.

* * *

He’s unsure how it devolved into this.

All he knows is wet heat, and he bucks into it with abandon. He rakes his fingers through the other man’s hair, reveling at the soft texture. He just needs to _touch_ everything and it’s driving him mad he wants to come but he’s also fixated on how his partner must feel and coming is never enough so he yearns to stay like this forever and-

He moans, euphoria rolling in waves.

Ah, he thinks, before he shudders and ejaculates. Suitable name.

Angel, resourceful demon that he is, swallows all of it.

“Baby, whisky dick ain’t got nothin’ on you,” he says when he regains his breath. He stands up on knocking knees.

Alastor, still hazy under its spell, cups his boyfriend’s ass and runs his other hand up and down his thigh. Touch is bliss. Electric currents run through his palms as he caresses his boyfriend. The drug forces him to nibble at Angel’s lips until granted entrance. He tastes himself on Angel’s tongue. He belatedly tucks himself in after a song has passed, but in this state, he can’t bring himself to care.

Husk makes that distinction for them.

“What in the fuck, ya assholes! We leave ya alone for five fucking minutes”-Alastor narrows his eyes in disagreement since it was much longer than that, but Husk barrels on-“and ya fucking pull this pervert shit? Suck _my_ dick, assholes. We’re going home before they kick us out.”

Reluctantly, they comply.

Alastor drives them home, inebriated as he is. Angel distracts him further by touching whatever part of him he can reach. Shivers claw down his spine, and everything is absolutely swell. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he notices Niffty pawing at Husk, who seems a degree less crotchety than usual. Charlie hugs herself, smiling, while Vaggie chatters away, twirling her girlfriend’s hair between her fingers.

A creeping fondness bubbles up in his chest. He dismisses it as a side effect of the drug. He glances towards Angel. He’s met with a loving, half-lidded gaze, pupils blown wide.

God, he loves those eyes.

Wait.

His heart thuds with something akin to panic. Adrenaline courses through his veins, intermingling with the breakneck rush of the drug. Fingers brush over his knuckles, feather-light.

Angel lazily grins back. “Eyes on the road, Alastor.”

Al-as-tor. The name rolls off his tongue, devoutly uttered. Angel arches up and kisses his cheek. His lips are warm and slightly chapped.

Alastor is ridiculously, unbelievably happy.

* * *

They collapse into the couch.

Everyone is wide awake due to the nature of the drug. Charlie puts on music similar to what they heard in the club, a booming bass-laden ode to beat drops. Alastor pulls Angel onto his lap with no real opposition. Vaggie does the same to Charlie.

He’s running his hands up and down Angel’s thighs when she speaks.

“I fucking love you guys.”

Nearly everyone voices their assent. Even Husk, ever the consummate grouch, responds in the affirmative. Alastor is the lone dissenter. He says nothing, preferring Angel’s thighs to their drug-induced declarations. Propelled by the ecstasy, he pushes the back of Angel’s shirt up and begins kissing his bare skin. He nuzzles every individual freckle, lavishing extra attention on the one shaped like a tiny heart.

“Holy shit,” Vaggie drowsily remarks. “You guys are cute as fuck.”

“Didya expect anything less?”

“They’re a couple of pervs, that’s what they are.”

“I ship it! Don’t listen to him, he’s an old grump.”

“Love ya too, shortstack.”

“How disgustingly maudlin.”

“So cute!”

“Don’t you start, pal. You too, princess.”

They talk into the early hours of the morning. When Charlie begins to serenade Vaggie, Husk and Niffty decide to retire to the bedroom. Alastor stands up and holds out a hand for Angel to take. He leads them outside to the patio, shutting the sliding door with a click.

The moon hangs low against the _noir_ night abyss. Only the most luminous of the stars shine on, twinkling, a billion eyes watching from space. The air is autumn-crisp; the wind, calm. The soft tapping of arthropodal legs atop the plastic light fixtures adds to the alfresco orchestra. It’s five past the witching hour, and the drug lingers at its peak. Alastor is floating.

“In retrospect, that was asinine as all hell. _Merde_.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, Captain Obvious.” Angel smirks. “It was pretty hot, though.”

Alastor hums in agreement. He sits, dragging Angel down with him. Alastor lies back into the freshly mowed grass, the shortened blades pillowing his head. He’s granted an unfettered view of the night sky, but he can’t keep his eyes off Angel.

“I feel kinda bad they hadda witness that,” he confesses. “For free.” Angel winks cheekily.

“Don’t mean shit to me,” Alastor says, creole accent flavoring the words. “Wouldn’t trade that, cher, not for the world.”

Angel’s eyes widen before he breaks into a bright smile. “What,” he laughs, hitching his leg over and straddling him. “Then tell me, babe, what else is worth more than the world?”

Angel lies down on top of him, chin resting over his folded arms.

Brighter than the moon, Alastor thinks. He trails his thumb over the freckled constellations on Angel’s cheek. This time, Alastor allows the swell of affection to overwhelm him. He doesn’t fight it. He closes his eyes. His skin lights up with the electric frissons of a million pinpricks. Orgasmic waves undulate just under the surface of his skin.

The only emotion that exists in this dimension is bliss. Blinding, rapturous bliss.

The sensation is not unfamiliar. Of this, he’s intimately aware.

Alastor experiences this selfsame feeling in innumerable, prosaic ways: waking up to Angel’s wandering hands as morning light slowly chases away the darkness; walking back home on summer nights, hands clammy, but clasped together anyway; trying his hardest not to wake him when Angel nods off on his shoulder while he plays his apocalyptic video games; laughing at some ridiculous joke until one of them snorts or cries. And then everything starting up all over again.

Alastor opens his eyes. He reaches out, hand steady but heart erratic. Angel props himself up on his elbows, eyeing him. He places it over Angel’s chest. Slightly right of his sternum.

“This.”

He glances up at Angel, mouth dry. What he sees threatens to undo him.

“You are,” he reiterates before he loses his nerve.

He catches Angel’s wrists in one hand. Angel’s kaleidoscopic eyes shimmer under the muted patio light. Alastor speaks before Angel strips his heart bare.

“Anthony, let’s head inside. I want to feel you against my skin.”

(I want to feel your heart against mine)

Like the moon, the words hang, unsaid.

* * *

Dawn brings new clarity.

Husk shuffles towards the bathroom, shower beer in hand. He winces at the morning aches and cracks his back for good measure. He yawns. A door loudly creaks open and Husk just about jumps out of his skin.

A disheveled Alastor stumbles out from their room. His glasses are slightly askew, top four shirt buttons undone, tie peeking out from his trouser pocket. There’s lipstick smudged all over his face and littered down his shirt. The pièce de résistance is a notable crimson brand, in the shape of puckered lips, right over his fly.

“Water,” Alastor croaks out. He massages his jaw, wincing sharply.

Husk picks at his teeth. He takes another swig of his breakfast before leveling a look at his longtime friend.

“Ya look like a strawberry pimp,” he deadpans.

Alastor groans in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. To quote Mr. Garrison: “Drugs are bad, m'kay." MDMA, in particular, has both positive (considered for medical usage in PTSD) and negative aspects (“Suicide Tuesday”, dehydration, and teeth damage). Please note, I am not advocating drug usage. I know what I know (which is, depressingly, quite a bit), and I implore anyone who's curious to research everything.
> 
> 2\. Pancit=Filipino noodle dish  
> Lasagne=Italian layered noodle dish  
> Omurice=Rice dish, Japanese  
> (All delicious)
> 
> 3\. Boof: inserting/plugging drugs up the rectum.


	8. Fight Pt. 2 (Alastor/Angel Dust, Rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of past verbal abuse, slight description of unhealthy/dysfunctional familial relationships

“Babe,” Angel calls out, pleading.

Alastor ignores him. He grabs his jacket as he stomps out the door. Angel holds his head in his hands as his heart leaves with him.

Their relationship is never as precarious as it is when they fight.

* * *

It all started, as it usually does, with Alastor’s refusal to expand upon their future.

They were cuddled up together, watching another one of Angel’s vapid reality shows when one of the stars exuberantly discussed his engagement via his talking head. The actor had been dating his boyfriend for years now, so it was no surprise that marriage was an eventuality. Angel made an offhand remark about it, and per usual, Alastor waved it off.

“The future is unpredictable and dubious, at best. Only vapid escapists put much stock into the flimsy concept of marriage.”

There it was, again.

The sound of Angel’s hopes and dreams mercilessly bashed into a bloodied pulp. Angel hated how dismissively Alastor viewed the subject as if Angel hadn’t envisioned it a million times, turning it over like a priceless artifact in his mind. Memorizing all the different, gleaming facets. The innumerable possibilities.

He despised how reedy and weak his voice sounded as he faked a laugh.

“Marriage ain’t flimsy, babe. It’s symbolic, ya know? It’s a lifelong commitment. Ain’t that what we fought for?”

Before loving Alastor, Angel never really followed politics. Now, he had no choice but to. Alastor straightened his glasses, avoiding eye contact.

“ _They_ , darling. I have no personal opinion on the matter.”

And that was just it, wasn’t it.

This was far from the first time Alastor claimed to have no interest in the subject. He hemmed and hawed around it, ducking and weaving like a professional boxer. Angel was improving at wrangling his temper, but shrugging off his inherent loose-cannon nature was a struggle, most days. Combined with Alastor’s insouciant attitude towards an idea that he held dear, well.

Today, the gasket blew.

“Ya never fuckin’ do, huh, Al? Funny how a radio host has opinions ‘bout everythin’ under the goddamn sun but the minute marriage comes up, God strikes ya dumb.”

Shrapnel, everywhere.

“How ‘bout ya be a _man_ for once and let me know, straight up, if ya even see a fuckin’ future with me?”

Alastor exhaled through flared nostrils. A warning. Anger rippled through the feigned calm of his veneer. Something wicked thrummed under the surface. His lip curled.

Angel, brash and feckless, rushed blindly into fool’s territory.

“Maybe tell me, so I know ya ain’t just wastin’ my fuckin’ time! I can walk out the door right now and find me someone who _will_ wanna spend the rest of his life with me if that’s the fuckin’ case.”

The words spewed out like bile. Angel clamped his hand over his mouth, but the damage was done. Alastor’s eyes widened, just enough for Angel to witness the brief parade of pain flicker across his face. Like the green flash at sunset, it vanished immediately as if it had never appeared.

“Fine,” Alastor hissed, canines flashing. “Be my guest. I’m sure you’ll have so many suitors you’ll be beating them off a stick.”

Angel narrowed his eyes at the insinuating tone. Still, he reached out, an olive branch, only for Alastor to recoil. An unpleasant sensation raked down his arms at the unfamiliar reaction.

Alastor never shied from his touch, ever.

“If being with me is so bête noire then why,” he trailed off, and Angel could see him inwardly restraining himself. That dark thing inside of him, the one that Alastor thought Angel couldn’t see, reared its head. From the looks of it, Alastor reined it in, by the skin of his teeth.

It didn’t stop him from being nasty, however.

“Did you need directions to the door,” he sneered. Angel opened his mouth, a little too late, for Alastor abruptly stood.

“Let me do you one better. Since you’re so adamant about me eventually leaving, then let me help you accomplish your self-fulfilling prophecy.”

It didn’t stop him from being hurt, too.

Angel calls out.

Alastor ignores him.

The quiet click of the door and the ensuing silence is not as deafening as books make it out to be. It is every bit as profound and disquieting, how the world rotates on as if nothing has changed.

* * *

The rest of the day slogs on, midday giving way to early afternoon as Helios gallops his way towards the west. Mid-afternoon transforms into early evening, before yielding itself to night. The light is dying everywhere. What little remains cling to reflective surfaces, the scattered remnants of a wasted day.

This isn’t right, Angel thinks, drumming his nails on his thigh. His lips are bruised from constant worrying.

Alastor isn’t home yet.

It’s not right, Angel frets. He always comes back.

Doesn’t he?

Treacherous, intrusive thoughts worm inside his mind again. He’s too torn, too weak to fight them all off because Alastor isn’t back yet and maybe he’s never coming back home and it’s all Angel’s fault he can’t do anything right he’s so worthless he can’t-

No, he shouts, where no one can hear.

 _Breathe_.

Angel attempts to. He focuses.

Maybe he’s lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out as consequence due to all the brainless, idiotic, and dangerous things Alastor is involved with, especially when he thinks Angel isn’t looking.

Is it too much to want to grow old with him, Angel wonders. To watch the world as it slowly turns on its axis, season to season, skin weathering with age, lovemaking gentler but the kisses unchanging? Is it wrong to desire that? A tangible document validating their commitment towards each other?

He supposes it depends on the eye of the beholder/n.

A vow, taken two ways. To Angel, it’s a promise. To Alastor, a chain.

Alastor, more often than not, is too hell-bent on the present that he neglects to see the forest for the trees. Sometimes, it feels that he does not plan on living past his thirties, and that pisses Angel off, so goddamn much. It’s not that he can’t sympathize; he most certainly can.

He held that same mindset years ago when things with Valentino took a dark turn. He found ephemeral solace in every bottle, every pill, every white pile of powder. But that was before he met Alastor, again.

Before he fell in love with him.

Angel sobs, curling around their pet. He brings the upturned collar of one of Alastor’s old shirts to his nose and mouth to muffle his crying. Fat Nuggets doesn’t understand, snorting affectionately as always.

Angel belatedly notes the dark streaks of mascara staining the shirt from his incessant crying. But instead of abject fear, like how he would feel were it Valentino’s, he feels ache. Alastor, if he were to ever come home, would catalog the damage, sigh, and attempt to remove it as best as he could. The first time that happened (Angel had a penchant for wearing his lover’s clothes), Angel shook uncontrollably. He stammered out apologies, prostrated himself, and offered sexual favors for forgiveness. Alastor marched over to him, cradled his face in his hands, and said, as clear as the sky after it storms, “Anthony. It’s just a shirt.”

He kissed him. “It’s just a shirt: a silly, _replaceable_ thing.”

He lowered him to the floor, enveloping his body with his.

“Angel,” he said, soothing him with a kiss, “Let me show you the difference.”

He did.

Were he ever to succumb to memory loss in old age, Angel would sell his soul to keep that memory of Alastor.

The fact that there are so many to choose from speaks volumes.

* * *

The afternoon gave way to rain, which muted the miasmic stench of the city for a few glorious moments before it amplified tenfold. It’s not that he’s unused to humidity, hailing from the brackish bayous of Louisiana. No. It’s the impurity of the city that rattles his bones. The city is filth, urban decay in its final rot.

He appreciates the anonymity but abhors the city’s gratuitous depravity. He understands that it’s a necessary evil, especially for this line of secondary work. But right now, as riled as he is, it’s the devil incarnate. Alastor burns with indignation, with uncontrollable wildfire.

Possessiveness was always his worst trait.

Jealousy, the second.

Thirst for power used to be one of his best. Power used to be raison d'être before it was usurped by-

Alastor kills the thought. It’s the first thing in a long while.

He stalks through the narrow passageways of his territory, itching for a brawl. For someone who cultivates a debonair mien, his hair-trigger temper threatens to overturn all that he’s built. It just takes a few keywords, an unlucky roll of the dice.

A fight with his companion.

 _Boyfriend_ , his mind automatically corrects.

The distinction only serves to make it worse.

“Hey, sexy,” a throaty voice calls from his left. “Looking for a good time?”

Alastor snaps to attention, eyeing the man up and down. As the man is scantily clad, his eyes scrutinize what little remains of his clothing, before finally homing in on the embroidery at the hemline of his skirt. At the initials woven there.

The beast roars to life, salivating.

 _Ravenous_.

Alastor smiles, all charm.

“As a matter of fact,” he flirts, “I am. In a manner of speaking.”

The man beckons. Alastor follows him into the alley.

He hardly resists as Alastor spins him around and shoves his head and chest into the brick wall. Alastor pushes his body up against his exposed back as he moans, deliberately grinding his cock into his plush ass.

His lips ghost at his earlobe.

“Shall we begin?”

* * *

Angel refuses to chance on leaving to find Alastor.

Firstly, he wouldn’t know where to look. What Alastor did on his days off besides spending most of them with Angel was none of his business. Angel understands more than he lets on, and this is not his first rodeo, by far. He just implicitly trusts Alastor to remain faithful, safe, and to return home. Anything that falls outside of those lines warrants no real concern from him.

Besides, he could not risk leaving in case Alastor returns and arrives at the worst possible conclusion. Angel can only imagine what wayward fantasies his own mind would concoct were the tables turned. He would go mad from the implication alone.

Husk left for work an hour ago. He glanced at Angel in that knowing way of his. He adjusted his jacket, lingering for a beat too long on the stairs. He sighed as he trudged over, parking himself next to Angel on the couch.

“Kid,” he said like the words were being torn from him. “He’s coming back. He’ll come back. For you.”

When he didn’t answer, Husk continued.

“He ain’t say it much, I’m sure, but he loves ya. Don’t argue with me on this. I’ve known that asshole for years, and I’ve never seen him like this. With anyone, ever. And there’d been a few, here and there.”

Angel broke. He threw his arms around him, clutching tight even as sobs wracked his body. Husk patted his back awkwardly. He stiffened initially but softened as time went on. He let Angel wring out every last tear on his jacket. Angel pulled back slightly from the embrace, rubbing his eye.

“Thanks, Husk,” he rasped. “’Preciate it.”

Husk grinned. “No problem, kid. Now get off before he comes back and shanks the shit outta me.”

Angel laughed but released him. That wouldn’t be too far left from the realm of possibility, after all. He waved at Husk as he left for the night.

Angel sighs.

He presses the center button on his phone to check the time. Far later than usual. He knows Husk meant well, but a part of him still believes that he’s chased Alastor away for good. His father said it best: “What kind of dumbass would wanna stay and put up with your ass? You’re dead to me, Tony. The more people get to know ya, you’ll be dead to them too.”

Angel thought he’d wrung himself dry of tears, but he is, once again, dead wrong.

All this because he couldn’t rein in his rage. All because of his mulishness. All because he refused to budge on the topic of marriage, something Alastor was clearly uncomfortable with discussing.

Anxiety bleeds out from the invisible, but no less real, wound in his chest.

He cannot bear for Alastor to leave him.

Floating specks of dust hover inside the individual beams of moonlight streaming through the windows. The blinds are up, just in case. The windows, wide open, allergies be damned.

He’ll wait forever if he has to.

* * *

The man shudders as Alastor licks up the shell of his ear before biting down. He bucks his ass back against Alastor’s front, whimpering as he encounters the hard line of Alastor’s cock. Alastor chuckles.

“Dear, I believe I asked you a question.”

He nips teasingly at his earlobe, eliciting another breathy moan from his partner. His hands roam across his chest, and down his muscular abdomen. He takes special care in treating the man firmly, but tenderly. He pauses for a moment at the smooth, shaven skin before realizing his question remains unanswered.

Alastor dips his hands under the waistband and digs his nails in.

“Yes,” he gasps, canting his hips, chasing the burn.

“Good boy.”

Alastor, lightning-quick, reaches downward to cup the man’s clothed cock. His other hand snakes around his windpipe. The man bucks half-heartedly, clearly enjoying the play. In his way, Alastor does too.

“You may be aware of this, darling, but I’m going to fuck you now.”

It’s no lie.

Before the subject of payment can be discussed, Alastor tightens his hold on both places. The other man is not far gone enough not to flail, but it’s close. He shifts his stance so that he can feel the outline of another weapon. The man stiffens and stills. Alastor doesn’t try to conceal his smirk. After all, he shamelessly exploits whatever advantage he can. He applies additional pressure to halt the pushback.

Alastor brings his neck towards his mouth.

“You’re going to tell me where your boss, Asmodeus, resides. Then, you’re going to lead me to him so we can have a chat. Nod once,” he purrs.

For assent.

There’s only one option. Besides, he literally has him by the testicles. Not to mention his throat.

The man nods. His heartbeat jackrabbits under Alastor’s palm. Before the adrenaline hits, Alastor releases his hold from around his cock and neck, yanking his wrists behind him. Deftly, he wraps the zip ties around them in a vice grip. He returns his hand to his throat. The man whimpers and convulses.

He sighs, letting up on the chokehold, a fraction. He inches back, wrinkling his nose.

Why do they always soil themselves, he laments.

* * *

Alastor returns home later that night.

Angel hears the pipes rattle from their room, but instead of relief, the pit in his stomach grows exponentially. Guilt gnaws at his innards. For the life of him, he has no idea what to say. It’s an altogether unfamiliar sensation.

The door swings open, and Angel feigns sleep.

He peeks out from the sliver of his lowered lids, catching a glimpse of his erstwhile lover. As Alastor works the towel through his hair, his arm lifts with exertion. Angel spies a fresh set of red scrapes near his ribcage. His first instinct is the sudden thought: Is he okay?

The second one collides with what remains of his stomach and is summarily dragged down.

_Did he fuck anyone else tonight?_

It’s a terrible, awful thought that makes Angel feel like retching. The sensible part of him knows that Alastor would never, but that part is caged while the vast majority of emotions swarm within, stealing center stage.

Showering was what Travis used to do when he finished with Angel before returning to his wife. Showering was what Valentino ordered him to do after Angel serviced his allies at his behest before allowing him to crawl to bed.

Angel muffles his whimpers.

Alastor finishes drying his hair and balls up the towel. He throws it in the hamper. Shirtless, he pads over to his side of the bed and sits down, back facing Angel. Alastor smells like their body wash and his shampoo. There’s a slightly metallic, almost coppery scent that clings to his skin, but it’s barely a wisp, masked by the rest of the fragrance. Angel watches the rise and fall of his broad back, his fingers itching to trace over the raised scars there. His heart clenches. He blinks, wetly, and tries to contain his tears. Alastor sighs.

“I know you’re awake.”

He doesn’t face him. This, above all things, bothers Angel. He reaches out in the dark to brush fingers against warm skin. Alastor flinches marginally as if not expecting the touch.

Angel’s heart plummets.

“Angel,” he begins. Angel observes him regulating his breathing, a familiar habit. It aids him in formulating his thoughts before filtering them into sentences.

It’s so characteristically Alastor, it hurts.

“If you wish, I can pack everything by tomorrow morning.” His voice sounds strained and exhausted. “I can stay with Rosie in the interim until I set my affairs in order. I’ll continue to cover prorated rent until I find a suitable replace-”

A sob rips from Angel’s throat.

He shoots to his knees in a flash, hitching his arms around Alastor, mooring him in place. He shakes, rattling with silent sobs.

When did Alastor’s skin get so wet, he thinks.

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” he begs. “Please.”

Alastor releases another shaky breath. He still refuses to move. He still refuses to touch him back.

“Anthony, I don’t think I can ever give you what you want. Even more so, what you clearly deserve.”

He sighs again. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“Bullshit.”

Alastor shifts, possibly at the conviction laden in his voice.

“You’re Al, ain’t ya? You’re Alastor, and you’re my kind of man.”

“I can’t promise you forever, Angel.”

He lowers his voice.

“Sometimes, I don’t even know if I’ll last the week.”

Angel blinks against his back. Butterfly kisses, his mother used to say. Angel disagrees. He blinks back agony and worry. There is nothing romantic about that.

“Stop playin’ fast an’ loose, then. I can’t lose ya now. Not ever. I wanna wake up next to ya every day. I wanna hear ya singin’ me to sleep at night. I wanna grow old with ya; I want us to hit milestones together, from small shit to the big ones. I don’t need marriage, Al. I just need _you_.”

During the confession, Alastor remains silent. Angel buries his face into his back. The scents are stronger, here. Familiar.

Don’t ya need me too, he mouths along the scars. A fresh wave of self-loathing crests and builds momentum as it rises in his belly. He braces for the onslaught, chest stuttering in anticipation.

It never does come.

Angel weeps in relief as Alastor lifts his arms. He twists his torso as he loosens Angel’s grip, but lifts his leg onto the bed to adjust for the change in angle. He faces Angel, now. Even in the subfusc light, the once-startling tenderness in his face shines through.

“Darling,” he breathes, tilting Angel’s face up with those clever fingers. This close, Alastor’s features are apparent: red-rimmed eyes, the exhausted circles under them, the worry-bitten mouth.

Alastor, true to form, smiles.

“Of course I need you too.”

Angel’s heart aches as it mends itself back together.

* * *

He clings to Alastor for a long while. Alastor does the same while humming under his breath.

It’s to placate him, he’s positive, but a Molotov’s cocktail of jealousy and nausea flares in his stomach. He attempts to smother the flames, to no avail. Alastor, observant as always, notices.

“Something else is bothering you,” he says. Angel burrows his face deeper into Alastor’s chest.

“I…”

“Tell me.”

Angel is surprised at Alastor’s request, especially after all that occurred earlier. He can’t stomp out the feeling that Alastor may be trying to open up, for once. To communicate.

His heart swells amidst the turmoil.

“Did ya…babe, ya took a shower soon as ya got home and I know that it don’t mean nothin’ but I just. We had a fight and…”

“Angel,” he murmurs in the dark. He wraps his arms tighter around his boyfriend.

“I would never betray you,” he says with certitude. “Why would I look elsewhere when everything I could ever want, ever dream of, is right here?”

Angel melts. He extricates his arms, climbing atop of Alastor. He smiles. It’s slow when he rides him.

They make love.

There’s nothing else for it.

* * *

Angel’s lids grow heavy and he droops further into Alastor’s chest. He nuzzles his face into the warm skin, breathing deeper.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow,” he mumbles, probably. Alastor chuckles at the reference. A huff of breath whistles in the shared air between them. Angel sighs against his skin. The night is blessedly still.

Marriage, the very idea, Alastor thinks. Laughable. Fanciful. With as much substance as a balloon.

Alastor understands marriage. After all, he was privy to the continuous breaking of vows on a daily basis as a boy. Separately, his parents functioned as decent people. Together, however.

They ignored him during their frequent rows, preferring to focus their ire on each other, striking with pinpoint accuracy. Marriage meant screaming in a drunken rage at a locked bathroom door. Marriage meant jagged, deep holes in drywall, then avoiding eye contact with the plasterer the next day. Marriage meant spitting insults, barbed with nails, at the person you swore to love, in sickness and in health, in good times and woe.

Marriage. He hermetically sealed the venomous idea, cordoning it into a box at the back of his mind. He buried it with the rest of the carrion: his heart and all things related.

But now, because of Angel, he questions himself. He never did before. This is startlingly new to him, and now everything he knows is thrust into chaos. He finds himself considering the most ridiculous things.

Sure, he could gradually ease out of the business. Not radio, mind. The other one. It would leave an unfortunate power vacuum, however, so he might need to leave at least one foot in the door for the rest of his life, however short it may be.

Memorizing the seraphic features of Angel’s face in the adjusted dark, he allows himself to contemplate the feasibility of a long life. Everything about this relationship humbles him, yes, but what else is new. This is Angel. This is Angel, and he has never done anything by halves.

This is Angel, and he has never known war.

How ironic, that Alastor, who has known nothing but, finally toys with the option of peace.

Alastor supposes that one day soon, he might start cashing in on a few favors. Maybe invest those stocks into a thriving business. Purchase a property. Involve himself in the long-term rental game.

Run a hotel.

What a laughable notion, he thinks before he sobers.

For now, he contents himself with the simple waltz of nighttime. Angel. Angel, who curls into the space between his arms. Angel, who parts his lips as he moans, dreaming. Angel, who holds tight, clinging like a second skin to Alastor, smelling like roses and vanilla.

Marriage, he thinks, sifting through grave dirt long forgotten.

Perhaps it’s time to revisit the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Beholder: person who observes something. Beholden: person who is indebted to another.
> 
> 2\. “Don’t go where I can’t follow” is a quote from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien.
> 
> 3\. Every time Alastor and Angel fight, ~~a kingpin~~ someone notable disappears. For this reason, Alastor’s colleagues have started sending gifts/bribes to Angel on their behalf.
> 
> 4\. Next: Radiosex(?) on the horizon, mateys. All aboard the ship of depravity


	9. Radio (Alastor/Angel Dust, Rated E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by and for Hibisha and NiteLite, who encouraged radio sex.

“Does that thing have a mute button?”

“Believe you me, I’ve tried.”

“Try again.”

Angel halts his tirade as Alastor flourishes the remote control at him. He mashes down on a single button. Face locked in a snarl, Angel raises a brow. Alastor grins.

“Well, whaddaya know? It works!”

If looks could kill, Alastor would be nothing more than a smoking scorch mark on the floor. Husk snickers next to him.

“All this time I’ve known ya, and ya still ain’t learn to read the room.”

Angel readies another round of Italian-laden swearing but Alastor utilizes the momentary lapse in concentration to his advantage. He spreads his arms, reaching out with his most charming smile. He spots the exact moment when Angel sways in his convictions. He gravitates closer to Alastor, grumbling as he sinks into his lap. Alastor graciously ignores Husk’s snort of derision. Angel pouts.

“I _am_ responsible, and I _am_ capable of takin’ care of another pet.”

“No one is saying you’re irresponsible,” he says, nuzzling into his neck.

“You just did.”

Alastor glares at Husk, tightening his arms around Angel. Husk shrugs, sipping his drink.

“It’s true.”

“Traitor,” he hisses. Angel, against his better judgment, relaxes in Alastor’s arms. He rests his head in the crook of his neck. His hair brushes Alastor’s cheek. He relishes in the softness.

The subject abruptly changes when Alastor receives a text from Loona, of all people. Angel finds out that Alastor’s coworker is bedding Stolas on a weekly basis. It’s difficult to get a word in edgewise between his peals of laughter.

“Darling, is that even surprising? It’s _Stolas_ , for Pete’s sake.”

“Is he even his type?”

“Does he have a pulse?”

“Burn, Al. Ouch.”

They try their utmost to describe the fiend to Husk, who quickly loses interest in hearing about yet another one of Angel’s strip club patrons. Husk admits that he used to go often until he discovered that gambling had better odds. Angel teases him about it, ribbing him lightly about his stint in the military, and how often new recruits came to the club.

“First and the fifteenth, Husk. Busiest days of the month. I’m sure ya know all about that.”

“Fuck off, kid. That was a long time ago before I met Niffty. And this asshole. Ya probably was still in diapers.”

Alastor laughs. “Takes one to know one, Husker!”

He waves them off with the one-finger salute.

“I thought this was about Angel and him wanting another pet. What, the pig ain’t good enough for you? ‘S’matter kid, ya got some kinda mommy complex or something?”

Alastor begins to grin, but it quickly fades as he realizes that Angel doesn’t answer immediately. He slumps, aiming for discreet, but Alastor detects the minutiae in muscle movement. His hands automatically find purchase around his hips. Angel shyly looks at him under lidded eyes.

“A full family ain’t necessarily a bad thing. I grew up with a sister and a brother and a ton of cousins. More can sometimes be better.”

Husk scratches his chin. “Kids are too much hassle. Buncha crotch goblins that suck the life outta you. Hard pass, for me.” He points to Alastor. “Hard pass for him, too.”

Angel furrows his brow. “But what if ya end up wantin’ kids later on, babe?”

“I’m sure that particular ship, had it ever existed in the first place, has sailed. I wouldn’t hold my breath in that changing anytime soon.”

“What if _I_ want kids?”

Alastor chokes.

“ _Alrighty then_! See you assholes later! I gotta see a man about a horse!”

Husk leaps out of the chair with a speed to rival any Olympian and the wherewithal to rival Holmes. Alastor shoots him a betrayed look in between fits of coughing.

Et tu, Brute, he projects with a glare. Since they’ve been friends for so long, he’s positive that Husk has a reasonable idea of what he means. The traitor in question shrugs as if to say, “Sorry, pal.”

Husk skedaddles away as Angel pokes his cheek. Alastor turns into the prodding finger, coughing into his fist. Angel sighs, simultaneously looking both fond and exasperated. He reaches over and plucks his glasses from his face. He looks down.

“What if I want kids,” he repeats, turning the frames over in his hands.

Alastor _almost_ , and it’s a dead near thing, says “with who” but bites his tongue at the last minute as a voice that sounds suspiciously like Rosie berates him from inside his head. The coughing subsides, and Alastor manages to catch his breath. The world is blurry, his right eye more so, but he can see Angel clear enough. Does he want to, is the million-dollar question.

“Baby, you’re doin’ it again.”

Angel’s voice is so soft, it’s unsettling. Alastor forces himself to make eye contact despite the haze.

“What am I doing?”

“You’re avoidin’ the subject,” he says. He fiddles with the frames, swinging the hinges, to and fro. “When ya get like this, ya won’t look me in the eye and you’ll move your body away. Ya also stiffen up, and not in the way I lo- _like_.”

He fights against doing just that. He’s surprised at how much of a struggle it is.

“I know ya don’t mean to do it, Al. But ya do. I know some things are uncomfortable to talk about, but ya gotta roll with the punches, babe. That’s what being in a relationship is all about.”

Alastor allows the words to soak in. It takes a moment or so, but they settle. His mind is still a maelstrom of doubts and uncertainty, but the words help tether him down. He nods, almost imperceptibly. He closes his eyes and leans forwards.

The frame fits snug against his face once more, warmed by Angel’s hands, and smooth fingers tuck them behind his ears, right under his hair.

He opens them. Everything is clearer, now.

Angel peers back at him, face cautiously hopeful. And so immeasurably brave. Alastor reaches out and clasps his hands over Angel’s. He squeezes. He takes a deep breath, then exhales.

“Do you want children, Anthony?”

The right corner of his mouth lifts as Angel answers in the affirmative.

“Biological or?”

“Either way is fine, but um…Molls said that she’d, ya know, help u- _me_ , carry it and whatever.”

“As in, a surrogate? She volunteered?”

“Yeah, bein’ my twin and all. Fraternal, but it’s still fifty percent DNA. The doctor cleared her for IUI, intrauterine insemination, but if we run into any trouble, IVF is an option.”

“Ah. I see,” Alastor says, lying. “How long have you researched this?”

Angel bites his lip. “Give or take a few years? Enough time to put money away in a separate account.”

Alastor tries not to blanch.

“Come again? _How_ long?”

“Years, babe. Since school.”

“Years,” he croaks. Alastor has never felt faint in his life before this moment. Truly, there is a first time for everything. He hooks a finger at his collar; it feels vaguely noose-like.

Angel stops speaking, suddenly bashful all of a sudden. Alastor coughs again to fill the silence but it’s unfortunately lacking. He tries to salvage it the best he can.

“That’s incredibly…you certainly have taken things into account,” he babbles, voice pitched preternaturally high and cracking.

Angel gifts him a small, shy smile. He places his hand over his, a warm solid weight keeping him from floating away. His long fingers twist with Angel’s, and the world doesn’t seem so improbable anymore.

“’S’alright, Al. Don’t strain yourself. I know we won’t see everythin’ eye to eye,” he admits. He regroups quickly. “But the fact that you’re willin’ to talk it out with me is a start.” He dips closer. Alastor feels the soft press of lips on his cheek. His chest constricts with an unfamiliar but welcome sensation.

“Thank you.”

Alastor, stunned into silence for the third time in his life, sits there uselessly.

Angel laughs and remedies that.

* * *

“What is it, Moxxie?”

His coworker shuffles nervously, staring down at his feet. The action only serves to add to the intrigue.

“Sir, you’ve got a visitor,” he eventually blurts out. “She’s talking to Loona right now, but she insists on seeing _you_.”

Alastor scrunches his nose. “Visitor?”

He’s wholly unprepared as to who it might be. But, if Alastor retained one morsel of information from his father, it was the lesson, “Expect nothing, but prepare for everything.” He does have a vague idea, though, from Moxxie’s blush.

“She?”

“That remains to be confirmed, sir,” he says, carefully. “You know I’m not good at these kinds of things.”

Alastor nods, then sighs. “Is this person refusing to take no for an answer?”

“It would seem so.”

“Send him in.”

* * *

“Dear listeners, do we have a _treat_ tonight! This special visitor found his way into my studio-no double entendre intended-and decided to bestow us with his presence! Stripper extraordinaire and webcam darling to boot, please welcome the illustrious Angel Dust!”

He flashes Alastor a sly grin and a glimpse of his bare chest. Alastor responds by purposely allowing radio feedback to screech into his headphones. Angel scowls.

“Thanks for havin’ me, Al! I _love_ listening to your show. Put ya on _all night_ if I could.”

Angel grins as Alastor begins his show, playing it by ear due to Angel’s impromptu visit. Angel chews his lip, unzipping his jacket, slowly and deliberately near the microphone. He gasps, the sound reverberating in the mic. Alastor bites back his own sharp inhale as Angel exposes his chest further, swathes of dappled skin illuminated underneath the bright studio lights. He arches his back as he swings his jacket over the chair, hanging it over the back. He drapes his body across the desk, propping himself up by his elbows. Alastor forces distracting thoughts from his mind. He belatedly realizes he’s gone radio silent after Angel cheekily points at the clock.

He clears his throat.

“So, Angel Dust, a little bit about yourself-and please correct me if I’m mistaken-you work at Hazbin’s in the city while finding time to manage a monthly webcam broadcast. Any problems maintaining that line of work? Titillating stories you’d like to share with our audience?”

He prides himself on the steadiness of his voice. Angel is not making it any easier, with his suggestive movements and lascivious lip licking.

“That depends on whatcha mean by _titillatin’_ , sexy. I’ve seen it all, so that makes me pretty desensitized. My mild kink ain’t everyone’s cuppa tea if ya know what I mean.”

He winks. Alastor rolls his eyes.

“I’m sure there are a lot of listeners out there that would enjoy hearing about your nightly routine. This is a first foray for most, you see. You’ve quite an unconventional career.”

Angel laughs. “All right. Here’s one, babe. So recently, this guy comes in, fresh outta prison. So I do my thing, shake my ass like in every private show.”

“As you do.”

“Right. Same old song and dance. So I’m dancin’ along, and he starts…ya know. Choking the chicken. Jerkin’ the gherkin. Keep in mind, I’m facin’ the wall. Anyway, guess what this asshole does?”

He pauses for emphasis and drama. Alastor cocks his head on his fist, intrigued.

“What did he do, dear?”

“He jizzed all over my goddamn leg! Good thing I turned around when I did because that two-bit jerk was aimin’ for somewhere else if ya know what I mean! Couldn’t use the damn tissues in the booth, right? Made some stupid excuse ‘bout prison and how pent up he was. Numbnuts, I swear.”

Alastor barely manages to quell the beast as it rumbles to life. He speaks stiffly through clenched teeth, willing the jealousy at bay.

“How. _Foul_.”

Angel winks. “We 86’d the guy, don’t ya worry your little head over it. Plus, I made sure my man marked me after that shift if ya get my drift.”

Alastor’s smile widens as the beast settles.

He remembers.

“Sure, I-”

He’s just about to agree with the statement when he catches himself. Alarm bells blare inside his head. He inwardly curses his ineptitude and grasps blindly for words.

“I _get your drift_ , Angel.”

Too close, he thinks, as Angel bites back a laugh. Feeling petulant, he sticks out his tongue. Angel makes an obscene gesture back.

“Any other memorable stories, darling,” he asks ignoring the parody of fellatio. “ _Come_ now, you must have some others, working in such an iniquitous den as all that.”

“Mmm, hang on, lemme think. Ah,”-he snaps his fingers-“well, last night, I hadda regular come in, and he ordered a buncha shows from me as usual. Not too weird, yeah, but lemme tell ya, this guy…well, let’s just say he’s into some kinky shit.”

“Oh? Mind elaborating?”

“Let’s just say I spent five songs kickin’ dick. Can I say that on air? Dick?”

“Sure can! Do you mean that this client of yours gets his jollies from being repeatedly kicked in his privates?”

“You can say “groin”, Al. Pretty sure that ain’t obscene.”

“I can and I won’t.”

“But yeah, the guy gets off on gettin’ kicked in the dick. Not like crazy hard, because then the shows woulda been cut short”-Alastor adds a laugh track sound-“so kinda like soft to medium ball-kicks. Makes me take off my heels and everythin’.”

“Well, that’s _something_! Certainly much more entertaining than my Friday nights!”

“Invite me over, babe. I can remedy that.”

They fall back into their regular pattern of flirtatious banter. It’s startlingly easy and makes for an efficacious show. Alastor finds himself genuinely smiling throughout the conversation. Angel’s bawdy humor plays off his wit swimmingly. Alastor has never interviewed someone so close to him, much less a lover. He wonders as he watches Angel laugh if the listeners would be able to tell.

How at ease and relaxed he is, whenever Angel’s near.

“So what would you say your long term goals are? You stated earlier that you don’t necessarily see a future in dancing and sex work.”

Angel hesitates. Alastor’s stomach freefalls as he realizes what he just inadvertently asked.

“I think…maybe go back to school someday. Dropped outta high school but got my GED. And then, I dunno, settle down somewhere with the man I love. Maybe build a family?”

He sounds so defeatist, even alongside those hopeful words. Alastor laughs self-deprecatingly.

“What lofty goals,” he says. “I wish the best for you and…whoever that may be.”

Angel’s lips quirk. “Yeah, well, my boyfriend likes to say, ‘Hope springs eternal’. He’s a sarcastic prick, but I’d like to imagine he’s right.” He leans forward, shattering the five-foot rule, eternally.

“I wish the best for us, too.”

Alastor does not, because he is incapable of doing so, melt. But it’s a near thing. He clasps his hand over Angel’s outstretched one. He squeezes, because he’s right.

“Well. That’s about all the time we have for this interview. I surmise that Angel Dust may be a recurring guest in the future, so be sure to prepare any questions you may have for him! As always, this is Alastor, the Radio Demon, signing off for now. Here’s a jaunty little number to keep you occupied. And remember, listeners: stay tuned.”

He presses the correct sequence of buttons and switches to ready the song. It starts. He removes his headphones. His finger runs alongside the switch for the mic when Angel rushes around the partition to greet Alastor properly. He hums endearments on his lips, over his neck, atop his collarbone. Alastor answers in kind.

“Dear,” he begins before Angel swivels his hips upward, rubbing against him. He moans, short-circuiting for a brief, rapturous moment.

“Did ya miss me,” Angel asks breathily. “Did ya like my surprise?”

“I always miss you, sweetheart. Yes, to both. Tonight’s contribution to this show was sensational! Artfully done, dearest.”

Angel looks so fetching when he blushes, thinks Alastor. He guides his hips closer to his, Angel fitting flush against his front. He releases a soft gasp and that’s when Alastor notices the subtle change in demeanor. His already erect cock. Basing it on a hunch, he runs his fingers along the edges of his lingerie, dipping his index inside the fabric. He reaches the silicone plug outlining the backside of his undergarments. A slow smirk blooms on his face.

“Angel, darling,” he purrs. The man in question shudders at being caught out. He removes his probing fingers. Alastor cups his ass then splays his hands down his soft, muscular thighs.

“Hike up that skirt and bend over.”

Angel assumes the position. Alastor, feeling like chaos personified, grins madly.

“And hand me that remote.”

* * *

The last time they used the vibrator, Husk had the unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on how one looked at it) luck of being ill. The doctor prescribed him antibiotics and bed rest, which he wholeheartedly ignored. Thus, Alastor had the regrettable fortuity to run into him in the kitchen as he prepped the mise en place for dinner. He finished chopping the celery and the onion and was working on the bell pepper when Husk opened his blasted mouth.

“So…walls are pretty thin.”

Alastor deigned to ignore him.

“Or your boyfriend is super loud.”

He focused on the knife cuts.

“How long have ya been edging him?”

Alastor sighed, placing the knife down. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty.”

“Little past two hours, give or take thirty minutes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Do you think that’s excessive?”

When Husk didn’t answer, Alastor picked up the pace. He hurried back up the stairs after finishing and washing his hands. He opened the door.

Angel whimpered, tears and mascara streaming down his face. The ropes woven around his body held him fast. Alastor tutted, rolling up his sleeves farther past the elbow. He fished his gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. The leather felt snug against his skin.

He shut the door.

* * *

What a fond memory, he thinks.

He’s off-air for now, which is just as well. Angel trembles, his thighs quaking as the vibrator judders inside him. Alastor adjusts the frequency. He hums as it reaches a fever pitch. Angel moans, so prettily. He spreads his stockinged legs impossibly wide.

“Breed me, baby.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Alastor extracts the toy from Angel’s ass, but not before shoving it in further one last time. Angel squeals. It’s music to Alastor’s ears.

Unbuckling his belt, he works his cock out from his boxer briefs, loosening his trousers just enough so that he doesn’t get snagged in his zipper. He slathers on lube after tearing the packet Angel hands him with teeth. A loose growl escapes his throat. Angel answers with a whimper. He guides his head to that soft pink opening, easing the tip in slowly. He shudders at the tight clench of Angel’s hole as it grips the base of his cock. Angel wriggles his hips impatiently, prompting a sharp slap to his ass.

“Behave, you,” Alastor scolds. It’s to no avail. Angel squeezes around him in response. To that, Alastor administers three more loud smacks to his cheeks until he’s reddened and dry-humping the desk. Angel moans, then begs. Satisfied, Alastor sinks into him fully. The tight heat, as always, threatens to undo him. He rests his forehead between Angel’s shoulder blades. There, he peppers kisses and mouths the words he doesn’t dare utter aloud but admits in secret.

Angel peels his hand from his hip and guides it to his cock. Alastor nibbles at his freckled back as he palms Angel, callouses smoothing over soft skin. He teases the tip with his thumb, wetly circling the slit with precum before cupping his palm over the head. Slickened, he slides it down the length of Angel’s shaft.

He establishes a rhythm. Alastor withdraws his hips, leaving just the tip inside. Angel whines. He shoves back in, forcing him open. Angel is a vice grip around his cock and Alastor uses the last sane tendrils of his control to will himself from spilling too soon. It’s depraved, performing this filthy act inside his studio, but the beast within demands it. It desires to possess, to claim Angel as his, everywhere he can, indelibly marking him on every cubic centimeter of his skin. He needs to paint the inside and outside of Angel with his seed, his marks, his bites. He must show the world who Angel belongs to, no matter the cost.

Hindsight is 20/20, he thinks, much later.

For now, the pleasure overrides Alastor’s control. All sense and propriety leave his brain.

“Darling, you’re flawless,” he croons, rocking into him with increasingly punishing thrusts. He adjusts the angle slightly, twisting his hips, and Angel howls. Shockwaves of pleasure jolt through his body as Angel tightens. He smiles shakily.

“Oh, sweetheart, is that it? Is that the spot?”

“Yes,” Angel hisses. “Oh, fuck, Al, right there.”

“Marvelous.”

He speeds up his thrusts, focusing as best as he can to keep a metronomic rhythm. Angel retaliates by bearing down, but Alastor predicts it and tightens his grip on Angel’s cock. Angel leans forward. He places his hand over Alastor’s, guiding it. Angel leads his hand down. He cups his balls as Angel swivels his hips and bounces back as he thrusts forward.

“Fuck,” he curses as his hips stutter. He releases Angel’s balls so that he can grab his hips.

“Breed me, Al,” Angel warbles, breath punched out of him. “Come inside, baby. Get me pregnant.”

“ _God_ , Anthony,” he moans.

All Alastor hears after that is white noise, then radio silence. His body succumbs to unadulterated sin as he envisions impregnating Angel with his seed.

Alastor succumbs just as Millie rushes in, followed by Moxxie nipping at her heels.

“Sir! Your mic!”

“Al! You’re on air!”

That does him in. He comes hard, harder than he’s ever imagined, to the fact that his listeners heard him fucking away into his boyfriend in an iniquitous litany of moans and squelching thrusts. As he brutally assaults Angel’s prostate with short bursts, filling him up with seed, Angel follows suit and emits a long, drawn-out moan as he spills over his hand, and all over Alastor’s desk.

* * *

Loona snickers.

Millie blushes, avoiding eye contact with both Alastor and Angel. Moxxie, beet-red as well, unsuccessfully bites down an irritated and amused expression. Blitzo spins in his chair, unresponsive.

“We are so fucked,” he bemoans.

“Eh, well, technically, that was me.”

“Angel, darling, please shut the hell up,” Alastor grouses, laying his head on the table.

“Is it really that surprisin’? I mean, maybe to the five people left who didn’t watch our live stream.”

“That shit was hot, by the way.”

Blitzo perks up. “Yeah. Good job, Al. Nice penis.”

Alastor’s hands twitch with unbridled homicidal rage.

I will not kill my co-workers, he inwardly chants, reprising his inner mantra.

He stares at the clock in an attempt to drown out their voices. The repetitive ticking noise, like a comforting little bomb, calms him somewhat.

“I’m sure those five people include the FCC.”

“Oh fuck! The FCC! They’re going to have a fucking field day!”

“Loona, not to point fingers, but why was the sound disconnected from the main hub in the first place? Just wondering why we weren’t able to hear anything and possibly nip it in the bud until, I don’t know, _the last ten seconds_?”

“Dunno. Maybe your sound thingie sucks. And your wires.”

“We gave you _one_ job-”

“Oh, sit on Al’s dick, Moxxie. I wasn’t the one who was fucking my boyfriend in the studio.”

“She…she has a point.”

“Sir, I’m not arguing that. I’m just saying that this could’ve all been prevented had she actually _done her job_.”

“Er, ya doin’ okay there? There’s a vein poppin’ outta your head.”

“Oh, Moxxie. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”

“So what the fuck do we do, then?”

“I’ll…make a phone call.”

“To the clingy rich asshole?”

“ _Yes_ , goddammit. And Al, you owe me one. The best we can do is wait, and hope none of our viewers snitch on us. Kudos on the boyfriend, though. Hot stuff! We could look into expanding into the adult entertainment side of radio. Oh! What about a billboard?”

The Japanese had it right, Alastor thinks, staring at the clock and into the void.

Hara-kiri is such a fascinating alternative.

* * *

Surprisingly, Alastor’s listeners proved their loyalty by remaining mum on the scandalous broadcast. No complaints were filed to the FCC, at least none that they knew of. In fact, more fan letters and emails than ever were received, mostly sexual ones praising Alastor and even some to Angel. Angel had his fair share, of course, but they were mostly sent in person to his workplace. They did receive some lovely Japanese-style animated comics and fan art depicting the more explicit facets of their relationship. Alastor was tickled to discover that the consensus seemed to be that he wore glasses (true) and was adorned with tattoos of an eldritch nature (not as true; outwardly, anyway). Some fan arts depicted him with a third eye on his forehead. Angel’s favorite thus far was one that he had framed and set on his wall, showing him being penetrated by tentacles as an antlered Alastor doted on him.

His listeners truly had wild imaginations.

Alastor stretches as Fat Nuggets curls closer under his armpit. He trails his fingers down the piglet’s spine. He snorts happily as Alastor lavishes attention on him.

In the end, they compromise on another pet.

A child, it’s not, but Alastor concedes that Angel has impeccable motherly instincts and pampers Fat Nuggets incessantly. It would be remiss if he were to curb that, he thinks.

He has no horse in this race, but he hopes Angel doesn’t pick a dog. He’s not particularly partial to them, having had one too many bad experiences with canines of the guard variety. He’d honestly prefer a cat or a rat. Recently, they watched a documentary about people keeping tigers. The idea as a Valentino deterrent was intriguing, but the application seemed soundly lacking.

Alastor and Fat Nuggets doze off as they wait for Angel.

Are sugar gliders and mongooses even legal, he wonders before he falls asleep.

* * *

His phone vibrates on the table. Blearily, he reaches for it, careful not to wake Alastor.

The air conditioner trills in the background as the only prominent nighttime noise. Otherwise, it’s nearly as quiet as the grave. Fat Nuggets huffs tiny breaths as he naps on the pillow above their heads, preferring Alastor’s cooler skin to Angel’s warmer temperature. Alastor lies on his back, dreaming silently as he was wont to, the microscopic undulation of his chest the only indication of life.

“Yeah,” he whispers, rubbing his eye.

“Tony?”

“Yeah, Molls?”

“Um. So we heard ya on the radio.”

“ _Mio Dio_. We?”

“The whole fam. Daddy wants to see ya if you’re willin’ to see him.”

“He can rot in Hell, for all I care. Fuck him. And what the fuck was he doin’ listenin’ to Al’s show?”

“That’s his favorite show. Well, _was_. Ya know Daddy likes his radio. Anyway, please just think about it. At least, do it for me. And Ma.”

Angel sighs. There’s that Catholic guilt again, he thinks. She isn’t even being subtle this time.

Alastor’s breathing changes and he shifts. He sleepily wraps his arms around Angel’s torso, cocooning him and muzzily nosing into his naked back.

“I’ll think about it,” he whispers, calmer now. His heart sinks as he hears the relief in her voice.

“Thanks, Tony. Love ya.”

“Love ya too, Molls. Talk to ya later, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Danger,” he finishes. She laughs.

He hangs up. Alastor’s breathing evens out, and Angel’s heart slows in tandem with his.

This can wait.

The world can wait.

He yields to sleep, eyelids drooping. He thinks he can make out Alastor murmuring words, but by the time his mind works out what they are, he’s plunged underwater, and they’re lost to the depths of sleep and memory.

What Alastor says is this:

_For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a great father._

And quietly enough so as to be plausibly denied later:

_Ask me again in five years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Re: Angel’s recollections: true stories. 
> 
> 2\. FCC: Federal Communications Commission
> 
> 3\. Up next: the terrible ~~threesome~~ ohmygod I meant trio, drunken shenanigans, dinner
> 
> 4\. Due to my failure of word choice, there will now be a terrible threesome chapter sandwiched somewhere in between.


	10. Colleagues Pt. 2 (Alastor & Rosie & Vox, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie is 10000% done with their shit and she’s fraying at the seams

Their voices carry all the way into the sitting room.

“Good thing my pants are brown because I’m pretty sure I shit myself!”

“We escaped, didn’t we?”

“At what cost? And how the fuck do ya even know how to ride a motorcycle, much less hotwire one?”

“Dubious upbringing. Take off your shirt.”

“Fuck you.”

“Rosie needs to gauge how bad the wound is, if it just grazed you or nicked an artery. Or not, and bleed out for all I care.”

They round the corner.

Rosie places the loupe and gem on the coffee table. She brings the cup of tea to her lips, inhaling the scent (bergamot) before drinking deeply. She performs this calming task with her eyes tightly closed as if doing so might will the banes of her existence away. When that fails to work, she sighs. She slits her eyes open.

“Suck my dick,” he says, but strips off his shirt regardless. He winces as the fabric tugs between his wound and the tacky fluid caked on his clothing.

“I’d rather not,” comes the dry reply.

She sets the cup back down on the saucer. “What happened this time?”

“Pier. Word got leaked by a goddamn rat about the shipment. Luci ain’t gonna be happy about this, I can guarantee that.”

“Any leads as to who might care enough to interfere?”

“Most likely _not_ law enforcement. Possibly linked to that specific family.” He hums. “What was it? His name is on the tip of my tongue-”

“Like your boyfriend’s dick.”

“Oh my, what _is_ that? Over there?”

“What- _ow_! Fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you? I _just_ got shot there, ya fuckin’ asshole!”

“Toddler. It barely glanced you.”

“Now, gentlemen. No fisticuffs in my parlour. Alastor, you were saying?”

“It’s…what _was_ it? _Ah_! Right, _The Gift of the Magi_. Henry. That’s his name. The head of the syndicate.”

“You think Henry had something to do with this?”

“All conjecture, of course. It does make for a compelling argument, though, the way they’ve been sniffing around recently. I’ve no business with whatever nonsense the fool and Lucifer had planned for tonight, but even I’ve noticed them scurrying about less surreptitiously and more than usual.”

“Yeah, so what _were_ ya doin’ down by the docks this late at night? Fight with the missus? Tsk, tsk. Dog house, again?”

“None of your business, you foul fiend.”

“Or maybe you were entertainin’ some invasive thoughts ya had lately? Like…browsin’ websites for rings?”

Rosie quickly glances at Alastor, who has grown still. His face is deceptively blank, but it takes experience and familiarity to recognize the incensed beast pacing beneath.

Curious, she thinks. And apparently spot-on the mark.

“They don’t call me ‘Video’ for nothin’, dick,” Vox boasts.

“I think I’m fastidious enough to evade your broadcasting studios and security cam-”

Rosie glares at Vox. Her talent lies in parsing out lies, after all. She hisses out a warning before Alastor upturns her furniture in the ensuing melee. She rather likes this settee.

Grumbling, Vox relents. He throws up his hands.

“Fine! I may have peeked at your phone during the crossfire. What? When you unlock it, the first thing it shows is the last thing ya visited! Ain’t my fuckin’ fault.”

Alastor’s fingers twitch, a tell-tale and ominous sign. A sharp cough from Rosie and their combined exhaustion from the decline in adrenaline is enough to curtail him. For now.

“Burn in hell.”

“After you.”

She rises, dusting off her skirt. She heads to the cabinet and wrinkles her nose as it creaks open, dust springboarding into the air.

“Right. Let’s see what we have here.”

* * *

She harrumphs at the imbecile whinging in the corner. He pretends to be enthralled by her vinyl collection. He flicks through the catalogue, humming, before reiterating his point.

“Excuse me if I graciously decline,” Alastor sniffs. “He apparently doesn’t need my help.”

Rosie sighs. She resists the urge to throttle the both of them and heave them into the nearest body of water. If the Thames could talk, she reminisces fondly.

Instead, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Alastor. You absolute tosser. He’s in _pain_. Of course, he’s going to act out. You would too, were you in similar straits.”

He pouts, petulant as always. All that’s missing are the crossed arms, Rosie thinks.

“Now, stop faffing about and help me. We need to stitch up his wound.”

He huffs. “How egregious are the ones on his side?”

“They’re not particularly fatal. I’d reckon a centimetre or more would have ended in impromptu exsanguination. Rather fortunate.”

“Shall I put my party hat away? Karma for pre-emptive celebration, I suppose.”

“More like premature ejaculation, asshole,” he bites out. “Fuck you and your- _Shit_! What the _fuck_?”

Alastor cultivates an innocent mien as he pulls back. He bats his eyes at Rosie, doe-like, as she spies the rubbing alcohol clenched in his hand.

Half-empty, now.

“What?”

“Alastor, you bloody prat. Small wonder he doesn’t trust you.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, dear.”

“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me, asshole! Fuck you and fuck off!”

Rosie clenches her fists and her teeth. She counts to ten, breathing deeply. When she finishes, she levels her best glare at Alastor. He sighs, satisfactorily browbeaten for the time being. He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“I’ll stitch it. Fine. But don’t blame me if he flinches. I may have a steady hand, but we’re all out of local.”

“You do have the steadiest hands, dear. You have my gratitude.” She jerks her head at Vox. “And his,” she says sweetly.

“Yeah, thanks and shit,” he mumbles. “All that voodoo doll practice must’ve come in fuckin’ handy.”

“My dear, you’re _much_ more expendable than my collection, I’m afraid. Less pressure to get it right.”

“Alastor.”

“I’m _doing_ it. Lie down.”

Vox grumbles but acquiesces. Alastor kneels down as Rosie hands him the suture kit and the needle holder.

“Get your dick outta my face.”

“Jealous?”

“Barkin’ up the wrong tree. Save it for your trap.”

She wheels on him with frightening speed.

“Vox. Shut your gob or I’ll do it for you.”

Alastor smiles. She ignores him.

If she reaches the end of her rope, she’s tying it into a double noose.

* * *

“Don’t see why Captain Save-A-Ho has to come to my res- _Christ_! Motherfucker, that hurt!”

“Oopsie.”

“Don’t ‘oopsie’ me, ya shitheel!”

“By the bye, how is your darling paramour, Alastor? He can be a bit crass, but that can be overlooked; lord knows we deal with Husk on a daily basis. Point being, he’s absolutely charming!”

“He’s…fine. Everything is fine. We’re-,” he trails off. His audience waits for the conclusion, but it becomes clear that none is forthcoming.

“Oh, Alastor. I say this with utmost affection: you are, without doubt, the most emotionally stunted man I know.”

“I-”

“Can we not talk about this while he’s literally poking holes in my body? Patchin’ me up like a fuckin’ stuffed animal? You’re gonna spook him, Rosie, and it’ll be _my_ ass on the chopping block.”

“Fine. You do realize that you may have weaselled out of this one, this time, but I never forget.”

“A slight.”

“Or forgive.”

She doesn’t deign to look up to see their matching grins. She hears the slap of hands instead as the gits high-five each other.

“I hope the graves you’ve both dug for yourselves are deep enough, you bloody berks.”

Alastor finishes with an unnecessary flourish, possibly forgetting that Vox was not, in fact, an inanimate voodoo doll but an actual, breathing person. Chances are, he’s done it on purpose. The kick that Vox administers to his shin after he stands up was also likely not a coincidence. Before they can continue their scuffle, she puts her hands on her hips.

“Now. Tell me what exactly occurred at the docks. Vox, you first, starting with the details of the shipment. Then, Alastor. We need more information about this family.”

* * *

By the time Vox heads out, it’s barely dawn.

He squints at the sky as if it kicked his dog. Bedraggled and wincing, he gives Alastor the finger and waves goodbye to Rosie before limping off towards the direction of one of Lucifer’s private cars. The lackey leaps out to open his door, but true to form, Vox sulkily insists that he’s fine and to get the fuck back in the driver’s seat, you moron.

Alastor slinks past her. Or at least, attempts to.

“And where did you think you were going?”

“Ah. Well, I have a new motorbike now, so I was planning on taking it for a spin-”

“To peruse rings?”

Alastor scowls. In the seashell pink hues of early morning light, he looks unbearably young. His well-sculpted and comely features exude an air of not-quite innocence, but a halfway stroll towards peace. She thinks the boy must be good for him. Alastor may adamantly deny it until he’s blue in the face or to kingdom come, but he cares for him. In fact, he might even…well.

“I’m mulling it over. The idea, not the actual application. It’s not some incumbent compulsion, either. In fact, I’ve never considered it, much less gave it such pursuit before.” He rubs his eyes with one hand, pushing his glasses up. “Why is it so different now? What changed?”

Oh Alastor, she refrains from saying. You stupid, ruthless, charming man.

You fell in love.

Rosie risks a small smile. She breathes in the crisp dawn air. The sunrise sky is beatific in all its sherbet glory. She glances back at Alastor. His eyes are closed. His face tilts towards the east like a sunflower.

“Bloody closet romantic,” she scolds. She isn’t sure if she’s speaking of herself, Vox, or him.

She reckons it might be all three.

His phone vibrates. Raising a brow, Rosie tilts her head as he reads the message. After a moment, he groans. He passes the phone.

It’s a link to a webpage. She checks the sender’s name.

**Vox**

Under the link, he wrote: **Your bussy’s wedding vision board. Knock yourself out dickhead**

She laughs, despite herself. “I daresay that’s his way of saying thank you. In any case, you should take it as an olive branch, Alastor. Don’t look a gift horse, and all that.”

He hums in partial agreement. Rosie quirks her lips. His lover appears to have a noticeable effect on her dear friend. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but he seems calmer. More zen, perhaps.

But as always, in regards to the motley crew of fools she calls her colleagues and reluctantly her friends, she spoke too soon. Three more texts follow in rapid succession.

**Also read some of your sexts. You’re pervy as hell you should go to church**

**Those pictures are raunchy AF. Jesus Al**

**The power of Christ compels you lmao**

She sighs and hands him back his phone. He scans them. He’s silent for a blessed moment.

It, invariably, doesn’t last.

“I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

She hems in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Frenemies, to a fault.
> 
> 2\. The working title of this was “you can’t sit with us”


	11. Threeway (Alastor/Angel Dust/Stolas, Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrible threesome

“Well, that was disastrous.”

He aims for light-hearted to lift the overall mood. He surveys the mess, the floor strewn with clothes and shredded packets. Alastor wipes his chest and abdomen with a dampened hand towel. He pads out from the bathroom to where his boyfriend huddles under a nest of blankets. The hotel room is thankfully swanky enough to warrant superior construction and therefore withstood the gale force of Angel’s rage. The wall held up admirably against the broken chair. From most angles, one could even pretend the dents weren’t even there.

Alastor slowly sits on the bed, heedful of a wide berth. He had left Angel to his fit while he escaped to the bathroom to remove the condom and wash off, which means that he’s not sure where Angel hid the knife.

“Darling,” he attempts.

He’s rewarded with a sob.

Alastor’s heart plummets. He castigates himself, cursing under his breath. He _knew_ this was a bad idea, and yet he let Angel convince him anyway.

“Sweetheart, I-”

“He kissed ya. He fuckin’ kissed ya and I _hated_ it. This was the stupidest idea, babe. I thought I was goin’ to be fine with it, but…”

Alastor prudently scoots closer. He gingerly wraps an arm around the blanketed heap, pulling Angel near.

“Darling, for what it’s worth, if anything, I didn’t enjoy it.”

He sniffles. “Not the point, Al. And I know ya didn’t kiss back, but…fuck. It made me feel like shit.”

Alastor runs his hand through his hair. “Angel, trust me. I feel terrible.”

Angel laughs morosely. “I was so jealous when ya came inside him. I thought I was the only one that you’d…anyway, I pushed that down, just ‘cause this… _fuck_. It’s different with you than with anyone else I dated, Al. I don’t know why.”

Alastor strangles the spike of rage that riots at the veiled mention of Valentino and Angel’s other lovers before it suffocates him. He sighs as the compulsion leaves. It’s quite possibly the main reason why he agreed to this foolhardy plan in the first place. Angel offhandedly commented that he’d participated in these hedonistic activities with his past lovers and Alastor, the very embodiment of pride and stupidity, agreed to give it the old college try.

He sympathizes with everything that Angel speaks of. Lord knows, he also wanted to murder the man in cold blood even whilst buried to the base inside him. He rubs his eyes with one hand, before swiping it down his face.

“This was such a bad idea. Let’s agree to never do this again. Ever.”

Finally, after what seems like a decade, Angel leans against him. It’s the first time in a long time (fifteen minutes) and he revels in the affection. He shakes the sheets off his body. Angel huddles closer, so that they touch, skin to skin. He presses his lips to Alastor’s jaw, skating teeth over the hard line of it.

“Then make me forget. Fuck me. Make me yours, baby. I wanna scrub every last fuckin’ bit of him from you.”

Alastor concedes.

Of course, he does.

* * *

Even though Stolas brandished the obligatory results on his phone, Alastor will be damned if he or Angel is going to follow through without protection. Just the thought of it is enough to make his skin crawl. The man in question lewdly licks his lips, which prompts him to curl his own lip in disgust. His hands twitch as he combats the impulse to commit homicide.

Alastor sighs for the umpteenth time that night.

He still isn’t exactly sure why Angel insisted on this specific individual, but he figures it’s for the best that they enact this particular fantasy with a neutral party. Lord knows what would have happened if they had chosen Husk and things went pear-shaped. Both Alastor and Angel weren’t willing to sacrifice a friendship for their sex life. Also, it would be immensely distressing for Alastor to view Husk in an entirely different light, especially after all these years. He shudders. No amount of liquor or illicit substances would ever be able to erase the sight of his friend’s orgasmic face from his mind. Besides, Alastor had to grudgingly admit, the man before him was much more his type. If he had one other than Angel, that is.

Though he would never, even under pain or duress, confess that to Angel.

Stolas isn’t as exquisite and comely as Angel, but he does possess a certain _je ne sais quoi_. He’s androgynous in a fetching way, with an accent that more than compensates for any outward flaws, but his unctuous and lecherous personality is enough to put Alastor off. He suggests that they gag him during penetration, and is promptly punished by a finger trailing down his chest.

“What an incredible idea, Alastor. You are _devilishly_ kinky. I’d simply _adore_ that.”

He resists the urge to break off the offending digit at the knuckle.

He hazards a wary glance at Angel, who seems to be fine with the touch, so he reluctantly allows it. He lets Stolas strip him, listlessly gazing at the ceiling and cataloging the various light fixtures dotting it. Stolas unbuttons his trousers and palms him to semi-hardness over his boxer briefs. Alastor allows nature to pilot his body and before long, Stolas peels the rest of his clothes off. His erection juts out towards his face.

Stolas trills in delight.

“I _knew_ you’d be big, love. Why I’m practically _the_ size queen! Match made in _heaven_ , don’t you think?”

He vividly imagines, for a brief and shining moment, strangling the life from the wretched man. To his dismay and Stolas’s glee, his cock twitches and hardens at the fantasy.

It’s futile, he reminds himself, corralling the homicidal compulsion.

With his luck, they’d meet again in hell.

Alastor stops him short when he starts to play with his cock. His hands shoot out and grab him by the throat, an autonomic response to unsolicited touch.

“No,” he growls. “I’m fucking you only.”

To his immense displeasure, Stolas appears even more aroused by the gesture. He strokes his cock as Alastor releases his hands in disgust.

“Yes, Daddy,” he coos. Alastor fights down a queer mix of revulsion and arousal at his submission. He shakes his head, attempting to banish the unbidden sensation when Angel comes up from behind him. He rubs supple skin up against his own, reaching around to fondle his cock. He strokes him as Stolas smirks lazily, enjoying the show. Undeterred, he walks over to the bed, lies down, and spreads his legs.

“Who am I riding?”

Alastor, not one to mince words even as Angel distracts him, bluntly says, “You’re servicing Angel with your mouth. I’m taking you from behind.”

His eyes light up. He assumes the position on his hands and knees, presenting submissively before them. Angel pulls away, but not before kissing him long and slow. He gazes into Alastor’s eyes, and any reservation Alastor has shuffles to the hind recesses of his mind.

We’re really doing this, he thinks. _Merde_.

Angel struts over.

He kneels on the bed, stroking his cock. He crooks a finger. Stolas obediently crawls to him. He parts his mouth, pink tongue slithering out and licking a stripe up Angel’s cock. Alastor watches dumbly as Stolas fits his boyfriend’s cock into his mouth. Unease, jealousy, and arousal all war within him as he grapples with the beast.

He shrugs it off or tries to, as his feet follow their previous path to the bed. He grabs Stolas’s thighs and yanks back with more force than necessary. Stolas moans around Angel’s cock. Angel whips his head back, thrusting up. He bends in a gorgeous, streamlined arch off the mattress, and Alastor is reminded of how beguiling his lover is. He itches to wrench Stolas off so that he could pin Angel to the floor, forgetting this nonsense, and ravish him.

But he has to shatter his compunctions with Angel. He refuses to be seen as prudish, in case Angel bores of him. Angel is all that Alastor desires, and he is willing to pay the price.

He smothers the deluge of possession as a growing pit of unease pools in his stomach. The dark thing that resides within is not happy. Alastor forces his eyes closed and entertains fantasies of what he would do to Stolas were he given the chance and permission.

He’s only marginally surprised at how hard he gets.

Alastor sighs, positioning himself after rolling on the condom. He thinks back to all the questionable decisions that he’s made to lead him to this point.

Falling in love with Angel, he decides crossly, has its caveats.

He wonders if that’s why he chose Stolas. To soften the blow.

“No one gets to claim you but me,” he remembers saying, deep inside him.

He exhales forcibly through his nostrils.

I’m really doing this, he thinks incredulously before shoving inside Stolas. Against his will, he moans.

He withdraws his hips before thrusting in again. He builds a rhythm and his mind goes blessedly blank. Angel’s face morphs into unbridled lust as he watches Alastor fuck into Stolas. Every push forces Stolas to take Angel deeper into his mouth.

They don’t break eye contact. Not for a while.

* * *

Alastor lies back as Stolas rides him.

Angel, now behind Stolas, positions himself. He lines up his sheathed cock at an angle as Alastor spreads Stolas in anticipation. He purrs, egging both of them on. Alastor shuts his eyes as Angel breaches Stolas, the hot glide of his cock a mind-shattering friction against his own. Stolas bears down, squeezing them impossibly tight together. They moan in unison. Angel hastens, picking up the pace as he slams into Stolas with short, punctuated thrusts. Alastor attempts to match them, guiding Stolas’s hips down as he thrusts up. His whole body is flushed from exertion and arousal, Alastor notes. Stolas bites his lip, watching him under hooded eyes, and very deliberately grinds his cock atop Alastor’s abdomen.

Feeling lightheaded and ergo, charitable, he removes a hand from Stolas’s hip and wraps it around his cock. He strokes him off. Stolas preens and coos endearments as Alastor’s fist flies up and down his shaft. Alastor thumbs his slit, just as he does with Angel, and Stolas moans, praising him with jerky movements and words.

“Fuck, Alastor, _darling_. Yes, that’s it, love. Keep doing exactly that. You’re so talented with your hands.”

He misses the flash of hurt in Angel’s eyes as he gives in to Stolas’s demands. Stolas’s cock is cut, unlike Angel’s, and Alastor clinically catalogs the differences as he pumps. His brow furrows in concentration as he fucks into Stolas, the pleasure mounting as the dual sensations of tightness from his hole and friction from Angel’s cock blend harmoniously together.

“Oh, love, right there,” he purrs, rutting into Alastor’s grip. He watches Stolas’s face change as pleasure overwhelms his body, and he calculates the fastest and most efficient way for him to come. Again, he misses Angel’s distraught expression as he pinpoints his attention on the man riding him.

Stolas shudders as Alastor shoves his hips up and twists his wrist on the upstroke. Alastor observes, fascinated.

“You like that, don’t you,” he murmurs.

Stolas smiles and unthinkingly, Alastor returns it.

Angel’s thrusts come erratically, now. Stolas curls his hand over Alastor’s, tightening his grip to match his preference. His other hand moves to cup Alastor’s face. He instinctively leans into it, accustomed as he is to Angel’s past ministrations. Beyond Stolas’s shoulder, he’s met with Angel’s wary gaze, and is thrown off by the trepidation found there.

Stolas’s hand speeds up and he bucks. Alastor responds in kind. His hips surge up as Stolas leans down.

“Oh, _Alastor_ , I’m going to-”

He comes all over Alastor’s chest.

A glob lands on his chin. Fury and revulsion mingle with pleasure as he imagines stabbing into him repeatedly until he expires in a pool of blood. His tight hole clenches, Angel continues his assault, and Alastor curses. His hands scrabble at Stolas’s thighs. The pressure crests as he digs his nails in and arches up.

He climaxes as Stolas dips down and kisses him.

His mind powers off. The sheer potency of his orgasm incapacitates him, and he resists the base impulse to return the kiss. He parts his lips as a moan escapes him, though, and Stolas pounces on the chance to lick into his mouth. Alastor pulses inside him as the last vestiges of come is milked from his cock.

Suddenly, Angel withdraws.

Stolas is _yanked_ from him.

Angel tackles him to the bed after snatching a knife. Alastor belatedly recognizes it as his own. He wields it at his throat, almost nicking the skin.

He’s never seen Angel so apoplectic.

Face contorted with rage, he snarls, “Get the _fuck_ out. We agreed on no kissin’, ya fuckin’ shitstain! Get the fuck out an’ don’t _ever_ touch him again!”

Cowed, for the time being, Stolas swiftly dresses. He saunters to the door, but not before turning, smirking, and blowing a kiss at Alastor.

“Ta, love. Call me if you change your mind.”

He narrowly dodges the shoe thrown at his face. The door clicks shut. Angel smashes a chair against the wall, swearing in Italian.

Fucked out and exhausted, Alastor attempts to process what the hell just happened.

“Angel,” he says, unsteadily.

The chair splinters as it breaks in two. Shaking with unmitigated rage, his boyfriend slips under the covers, hiding his face. It’s only when he starts sobbing does it all come crashing down.

Alastor feels like retching.

* * *

The bed creaks under their combined weight.

Angel growls as he mounts Alastor. He’s incandescent, seething, and inexplicably aroused.

His erection flagged earlier after he watched Stolas come all over his boyfriend and kiss him. But now the man is gone, and all Angel wants is for Alastor to focus solely on him. His eyes prickle with hot tears as he sits on Alastor’s cock, remembering how he came inside someone else. He picks up the pace to banish the unwelcome memory.

Alastor winces as Angel rides him.

“Still sensitive, dear,” he moans, splaying his hands over his thighs. “Maybe a tad slower.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Alastor’s eyes widen behind his glasses as the dam breaks and Angel begins to cry.

Through blurred vision, he witnesses Alastor switch to panic mode, jolting upright. Angel hangs his head. He’s dizzy and nauseous with jealousy. That decades-old feeling of never being enough rears its ugly crown.

Angel shudders as Alastor embraces him. He rests his cheek on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

They stay that way for a long time.

Angel’s heaving subsides as Alastor rubs the small of his back, massaging his thumbs into the dimples. When he settles into a grudging calm, Angel tilts his head and moves. He knocks his forehead against Alastor’s in a rush of uncoordinated movement. Their noses touch, and for a moment, they just share the same suspended air.

One breath to another’s.

Alastor breaks the silence.

“Tell me.”

Something serpentine winds around his heart and squeezes. His chest constricts. He twines their fingers together to stop his from trembling. Emboldened by an unorthodox lightness, he proceeds to.

It spills, a noxious flood from his lips.

“For as long as I can remember, I was always Molly’s twin. We were a package deal. Hell, we shared everythin’: birthdays, toys, friends, the same fuckin’ womb. My own daddy didn’t want me an’ gave me up. I was the spare, right? Then I met Val, and he passed me around like a bottle of booze at a frat party.”

He sneaks a glance at Alastor, who doesn’t laugh. Instead, his normal smile is replaced with a hard, grim line. Angel trudges on.

“My other ex was married, well. _Is_ , I think, still. And I just thought it would be the same with you. That if they wanted to share me, you would too. No one’s ever wanted me the way I wanted them. I’m just…not enough.”

He blinks, hard. “I ain’t allowed to have anything for myself, Al. Not even me. And especially not you.”

There, he thinks. It’s out.

There it is, flayed open for all the world to see. For Alastor to see. He fights down another surge of self-pity.

The small, abandoned boy inside him covers his face in shame.

It’s dark there, deep down.

“Dear.”

Alastor stops. He rakes a hand through his hair, another signal besides twitching fingers that he’s livid. His eyes turn sinister and in the aqueous hotel lighting, they look almost sanguine.

“Anthony,” he begins, again. His voice is steel. He claws at the sheets as he attempts to rein in his composure. “That is the most fucking absurd… _you_ are worth more than everything else on this godforsaken planet.”

His voice splits.

“You are _more_ than enough.”

Angel darts up, eyes wide.

His guts twist at the expression on Alastor’s face. He’s never seen anything like it before, on him.

“I would burn down the world to keep you warm.”

His face is a storm.

Conviction is present, eclipsed by a vortex of heartbreak and despair. Another, softer emotion swims just beneath the surface, written in invisible looping letters, and in between the lines. Angel has a faint idea of what it is, and what the words might spell out.

Alastor is unaware that Angel knows, but bit by bit, they’re digging up grave dirt and transfiguring it into a garden.

Alastor leans forward, bridging the gap. Angel closes his eyes. He accepts the soft press of lips against his own.

“A world without you,” Alastor promises, “is one I would raze to the ground.”

The world, _his_ , tastes a little like the sea. Angel wipes his eyes as Alastor cradles his jaw, pulling back from the kiss. His eyes search Angel’s.

“What do you need?” He corrects himself. He knows that answer.

“What do you need me to do?”

It’s night time and clouds are blocking the sky, but the curtains are thin, and Angel thinks he can see starlight.

(All I need, all I’ve ever needed is you)

* * *

“My dear, shall we try this again?”

Angel nods. Alastor nudges him with his nose so he leans back. He catches Angel with his arms and lowers him down to the pillows. He props one underneath his hips.

“Budge up. That’s it, sweetheart.”

Alastor takes his time kissing up Angel’s thighs, mouthing, and nibbling the sensitive areas. Angel bucks as warmth encases his cock, Alastor’s mouth sliding as far down as his throat allows. His other hand cups his balls, gently rolling them with his fingers as he works his lips up and down Angel’s shaft. He pushes his thumb on the underside of his cock, massaging the base. Angel moans and arches into that clever, wicked mouth, more familiar than Stolas’s, and exponentially more welcome. Alastor’s other hand reaches up and rakes down his chest. Angel jolts, his fingers pinching his nipple just as Alastor relaxes his throat to swallow him to the base.

“Fuck,” Angel moans, thrusting up. Alastor gags, pulling off. He coughs into his fist as Angel whines at the loss.

“Dear,” he gasps between stray coughs. “Behave or I’ll restrict your movement.”

Angel nods, again. He beckons for Alastor, then closes his eyes and waits.

Alastor does not disappoint. He surges up and dips his mouth against his. Angel wraps his legs around his torso, digging his heels in his back to urge him closer. He parts his mouth to grant him entrance.

It’s always so sensual when they kiss. Ever since the beginning, Alastor has taken great care to move in tandem with him, straddling the fine line between teasing and challenging. He’s far and away the best kisser Angel has ever had.

He thinks he understands better, now, why Stolas’s kiss upset him so.

Alastor sighs into his mouth as he begins to rut against his thigh. The slippery head of his cock slides against his balls and up his shaft. Angel groans in response. Without asking, but with implicit permission, he shoves Angel’s thighs open and pushes in.

Angel whimpers and bites down as Alastor fucks into him. The bed rocks with the force of his thrusts. It’s right there, toeing the border between overwhelming and perfect; that spark. He’s stretched so far, and Angel feels blessedly full. He never wants to be bereft again. He’ll always crave this addictive sensation of being filled to the brim. He tells Alastor so and receives a low laugh in return.

“Romantic,” he manages, dryly. Angel grins.

“Ain’t I?”

Alastor shuts him up with a kiss.

His cock, wedged between his abdomen and Alastor’s, swells as the friction drives frissons of pleasure down his spine. He peaks, and it’s a short circuit switch in his mind.

“Time to surrender, Anthony,” says the demon against his lips.

Angel comes, eyes fluttering behind his lids. It’s drawn out due to the build-up, and Alastor wrings it from him in a display of delicious debauchery. Angel slips in and out of consciousness.

He’s exhausted from the effort and the dregs of the day.

“Please, Al,” he begs. “Inside.”

There is no sheath, no latex, or anything between them but skin. When Alastor finally spills inside Angel, marking him, the last thing Angel feels before he passes out is the selfish flicker of triumph that _this_ will belong only to him, for the rest of their days.

Before sleep carries him away, Alastor promises, kissing the shell of his ear:

“You will never need to share me.”

He doesn’t say it, but Angel smiles, reading between the lines anyway.

 _I’m yours_.

* * *

Angel, twitchy thing that he is, flexes his thighs under his hands.

“I don’t miss toppin’, not one goddamn bit. Ow. I feel like I just ran a marathon. Fuck Stolas.”

“Lazy,” he admonishes, nipping the shell of his ear. “And I think not.” He’s still buried in Angel, thrusting languidly as he softens.

“Piss off, Al. I ain’t see you rarin’ to clean ass and prep.” He shifts, trapping Alastor between his legs. “Don’t even remember the last time I got to eat tacos,” he accuses.

There’s a juvenile joke in that statement that Alastor acknowledges, but refuses to make.

“Touché, dear.”

“Babe?”

“Yes, cher?”

“I don’t wanna share ya again. Ever.”

“Darling, you never will. That, I promise.” He bites down on his shoulder. “I, myself, am rather satisfied with the status quo.”

A pause. Alastor welcomes the silence while it lasts.

“Babe?”

Lo and behold, it doesn’t. Alastor fights back yet another sigh.

“Yes?”

“Who felt better? Him or me?”

Alastor gapes at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know the answer to _that_ , dear.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

He’s fishing, Alastor thinks. And he will continue fishing as long as he entertains him.

So instead, Alastor says, “You’re absolutely right, dear. It wasn’t a fair contest. My boyfriend or the man I dream of strangling every time I have the misfortune of being in his presence? What a conundrum, indeed.”

He snaps his fingers.

“Eureka. We should ask him to return for a more accurate assessment. How should I go about this? Side by side, or one atop-”

Alastor receives a pillow to the face for his trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Angel may have a sharp tongue, but Alastor’s sarcasm takes the cake (or doesn’t, because there’s no cake in the doghouse)
> 
> 2\. Threesomes can be fun. They can also end disastrously. Engage at your own peril.
> 
> 3\. Dat video, tho! Oh, you bet Valentino’s coming up soon.
> 
> 4\. Next: drunken dumbasses, sick?, and dinner


	12. Bachelor(ette) Party (Ensemble & Alastor/Angel Dust, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Angel is the most responsible one in the room.
> 
> Or: everyone shares one brain cell and Angel has his own.

**Home, 7:00 pm (1900 hrs)**

Alastor brushes his teeth as he readies for the night. Angel shares the mirror while curling his lashes with the torture contraption, or so Alastor dubs it, before applying mascara. He winces as it bites into his lid.

“Ow,” he grumbles. “Stupid fuckin’ thing.”

Alastor observes from his side of the sink. Angel griped at him earlier for leaving hair inside the sink after he shaved, so he runs a bit of tissue paper around the bowl after every shave to appease him. So far, so good, he thinks.

“Was it necessary to apply the false ones? Couldn’t you go without and just use one of those volumizing mascaras? From the ads?”

Angel ignores him and presses down, this time successfully. His mouth gapes slightly while he applies the mascara in a sweeping motion. It’s rather adorable, Alastor decides. Until Angel opens his mouth further.

“Easy for you to say. Ya got the thickest, lushest lashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. Not everyone’s that lucky, babe.”

“Just call me winner of the genetic lottery,” he deadpans. He spits, then rinses out his mouth after gargling. He reaches for his cologne. Not missing a beat, Angel leans back, giving him room to grab it. He presses his minty mouth onto Angel’s shoulder.

His boyfriend grumbles good-naturedly as he nibbles on his shoulder, spritzing along his torso.

“Babe, I’m doin’ my makeup,” he whines.

He twists his body, but not enough to shake Alastor off. He hums, fully intending to let go and allow him to finish, but Angel locks him in place with his hand. He pauses, mascara wand millimeters from his eye. Angel looks at him, in that fond and exasperated way, and sighs. He deftly dances the wand down with his knuckles to his middle and ring finger. He holds it as he straightens Alastor’s bowtie.

“There,” he says.

“Now do my lipstick, baby.”

Alastor smiles. He scoops Angel up by his waist.

He goes to town.

They don’t emerge until half an hour later, Angel’s makeup impeccable but lips swollen, and Alastor, jauntily strolling along with a suspicious spring in his step.

* * *

**Party bus, 9:00 pm (2100 hrs)**

Before they split the group in two:

Angel swings on the pole, compensating for the additional movement of the vehicle. He manages to lock his legs around it as they hit a pothole, and arches backward to face his friends.

“Can ya freakin’ imagine Al’s datin’ profile? ‘Likes: long walks on the beach…to spot the best places to bury a body. Hobbies: stabbing and/or shooting people. Photographic equipment not necessary’.”

Charlie laughs as she pours her girlfriend champagne. “You’re funny, Angel. Anyway, Al’s not like that. I can tell. He’s good.”

He dangles from the pole, upside-down. He blows his boyfriend a kiss, who rolls his eyes. Angel pouts.

“ _Good_. Right, like the time he shot my manager.”

“You _what_?”

“What the…Al, you shot Vox?”

“I _attempted_ to, yes.”

“Pretty sure that shootin’ him is more than an attempt, but that might just be me.”

“In any case, I failed. He was wearing Kevlar.”

“What the fuck.”

“This is a double standard. He shot me as well. It also failed.”

“ _How?_ And why are you both shooting each other? And what the fuck do you mean by _fail_? He _shot_ you!”

“Yes, but I was also wearing Kevlar.”

At a loss for words, Vaggie gestures frantically at Alastor, who doesn’t seem to understand what the problem is.

Angel cackles, heels over head.

* * *

**Franklin and Rosie’s, 10:00 pm (2200 hrs)**

He sighs, leaning against the wooden edge of the bar top.

He avoids touching the surface directly, turning up his nose at the dishes of old boiled peanuts and edamame absently strewn over the counter. Thick rings left behind from condensed glasses further mar the already imperfect wooden expanse. Resisting the dendrochronological urge to trace his finger along the concentric paths, he forces his attention towards the beer taps and beyond. His reflection stares back at him, in that mirror that all bars seem to have, found behind the shelves highlighting their wares. A top-shelf vodka bottle blocks a portion of his shoulder. He pinches the bridge of his nose. His reflection mirrors the gesture.

Pink, he inwardly grouses, why _pink_.

It’s not that he dislikes the color. In fact, he’s told that it brings out his skin tone in a fetching way. Wrinkling his nose and pinching his sleeve, he’s sure that those sycophants meant every other shade besides bubble-gum pink. He wrestles with the frustrating urge to maul something, _anything_ but focuses on the reasoning behind the madness.

Or lack thereof.

Why he signed up for the bachelorette party instead of the bachelor shindig is beyond him. At the time, he thought Cherri the lesser of the two evils, and prudently requested to join her entourage. He can’t say if there’s a noticeable difference. As of recent, everything appears to be fairly benign. He knocks on the counter for supplemental encouragement and superstition, then snaps his fingers at the bartender.

Husk flips him off.

“Wait your turn, asshole. I’m balls deep in like, five drink orders right now and they’re all those goddamn specialty cocktails.”

“Rosie said I could jump the queue.”

“Pull the other one, dickhead. That shit’s anathema to her and you know it.”

It’s come to this, he thinks.

“Husker,” he whines. “I’m your _friend_ , aren’t I?”

He pauses as if considering the validity of that statement, so Alastor continues.

“I could be persuaded to clear the basement level in that game you’re struggling in,” he croons with false sincerity. Husk glares. He manages it for another five solid seconds before his shoulders slump. He sighs.

“The fuck you want?”

Alastor smiles. “Two Moscow mules, a Guinness, four Jameson on the rocks, three vodka-well is fine-shots with pineapple backs, and any non-alcoholic beer you have in a pint glass, please!”

Husk intimately introduces his palm to his face.

“I fucking hate you, ya know that, right?”

“Good to see you too!”

* * *

He doesn’t quite slam the pint down, but it’s far from a gentle drop.

“Aw, thanks, sugar! Do I owe ya a tip?”

Alastor grins and bears it. “I have no need for such a _minuscule_ offering, thank you.”

Small mercies that Vox is wearing the same shade of pink that he was forced into. He wouldn’t have been held accountable as to what would’ve happened if he wasn’t garbed in a similar color.

“Fuck did ya just say, ya bitchy little cocksu-”

“That is quite enough of that, gentlemen.”

Rosie sashays between the table and the booth. She gingerly takes a seat, patting down her voluminous dress. She fixes her glare at Vox.

“I’ll not tolerate any slurs in my establishment, thank you very much.” She turns to Alastor with the same expression.

“And you,” she chides. “Before this gets further out of hand, tell him that you’ve been swapping his pints for the non-alcoholic versions.”

“Ya fuckin’ did _what_?”

“If you can’t tell by now, you’re either a lightweight or an alcoholic,” he snipes.

Vox glowers. “I’ll fuckin’ show you ‘lightweight’. Rosie, open up a tab. We’re fuckin’ settlin’ this, once and for all!”

“Oh? Overcompensating, much? Very well. I accept your pitiful excuse of a challenge.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and clucks. “Prats,” she murmurs as she waves the waitress over.

(Which is how the both of them end up irresponsibly hammered.)

* * *

**Club, 11:00 pm (2300 hrs)**

The flashing lights overhead temporarily blind him as he grinds his way back to his seat. The path to the VIP section is overrun with undulating bodies, oscillating with the unselfconscious movements that come with anonymity and intoxication. Angel slides between strangers. Groping hands are rewarded with a punch to the dick or a heel to the foot. He’s in a right mood when he reaches their roped-off section, having declined earnest offers of coke and G.

The addict portion of him yearns for oblivion, but the budding, sensible part staunches the cravings.

He crosses his legs, deliberately flashing the shyest groomsman, just to be a tease. He blushes, and Angel barks out a laugh, leaning back into the leather seat. He reapplies liquid lipstick without bothering to consult a mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Pentious staring.

“What? Just say it, Pen.” He caps the bottle and stuffs it back into his purse.

“None of my business, I think.”

“Fuckin’ _say_ it, God. Ya might as well; you’re thinkin’ it and I can hear it from here, loud and clear over the damn music.”

Pentious chews his lip, darting his eyes away. Angel folds his arms.

“Well?”

Pentious shifts in his seat. “He lets you dance with other men?”

Angel bristles. “Okay, buddy, first off, he ain’t ‘let’ me do anythin’. I’m my own goddamn man. I do what I want, whenever the fuck I want.”

He shoots his hands up. “Right, then. Like I said, none of my concern,” he concedes.

The waitress arrives, just in time in Angel’s opinion, with the bottle service. He thanks her as she pours him a drink, and she lights up as she surveys his outfit.

“Girl, I love that top! Those boots are to die for!”

He grins. “Boyfriend bought it for me! Thanks, hon, and boots are actually from a consignment store, believe it or not.” He stands up, twirling as he showcases the ensemble. The skirt flutters around his thighs, and two out of three of Pentious’s groomsmen pretend to avert their eyes. He revels in the attention.

This is Angel’s element. His spotlight. He finishes with a cocksure jut of his hip.

She nudges his side. “Well, your boyfriend’s got great taste. In clothes and guys.”

He laughs and fishes in his purse for change. He places the tip on her tray, but she stuffs it back into his top.

“Compliments come free, sugar. You let me know when you boys need anything else.”

She slinks away. Angel chuckles and turns back to the table. He’s met with incredulous stares.

“Er…what?”

The best man, whose name Angel couldn’t be bothered to remember, says, “Teach us your ways.”

The group murmurs in agreement. Even Pentious nods, hand on his chin. Angel slaps his forehead.

“Ya fuckin’ virgins,” he grumbles. He looks skyward for guidance. When he receives none, he sighs. He’s about to lay some truths on those poor souls when he about jumps out of his skin.

He spots Travis at the same time the man notices him. His ex-boyfriend smirks, shoving through the crowd as he homes in towards the table. Pentious seems to pick up on his panic.

“Angel? What’s wrong?”

He manages to stammer out an answer when Travis arrives at their booth.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” he greets, in his usual oleaginous tone. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“Yeah, an’ for good fuckin’ reason, asshole.” Angel adjusts his top, picking disinterestedly at the threads. “I got a new man, hon. And he’s ten times you.”

He flashes his teeth. “If ya know what I mean.”

“Oooooh!”

Angel doesn’t care much for Pentious’s friends, but he does appreciate their strange camaraderie.

“Ain’t no one ten times me, _slut_.”

Pentious stands up as Angel retorts, “Oh, I’m sorry, I musta fuckin’ stuttered. I meant, _a hundred times_.”

“Now, that’s uncalled for,” Pentious hisses. “I’d like for you to leave. This is a private party.”

Travis snickers. “This your new man? Damn, Angel, didn’t think this pansy was your type. Thought you’d like _manlier_ guys, myself.”

Pentious sputters, but a stern voice cuts through the noise. “This guy bothering you, babe?”

It’s the waitress from before. Angel smirks as she glares daggers at Travis.

Still, he gives some pause.

Angel tries to empathize with how it must feel to be a closeted man. To be locked in an eternal quarrel against your nature. And how tiring it must be to live in a constant flux of denial and self-loathing.

Of course, Travis opens his big, dumb mouth and ruins everything.

“He’s botherin' _me_ , lady! Beggin’ me to suck his dick! I ain’t no-”

“Yes,” Angel sweetly interjects. “He is.”

The bouncers sweep him away as he curses and snarls. Angel slurps his drink, unbothered and satisfied.

The men crowd around him in veneration.

“Teach us your ways,” the best man repeats.

Angel shrugs.

“Eh. Sure.”

* * *

**Franklin and Rosie’s, 12:00 am (2400 hrs)**

“All right! Time to hit the club, bitches!”

Alastor is roughly sure that Cherri means well, but exiting the booth means falling on his face, and he very much does not endeavor to do that. Vox grips his arm, attempting to balance.

“Unhand me, you fiend.”

“Fuck off, dickhead! The ground is fuckin’ movin’.”

“That’s your _head_ , drunkard!”

“Will ya stand the fuck still? I’m tryin’ to walk here!”

Rosie, unhelpful as ever, chortles at them.

“You reap what you sow,” she crows, like the nonsensical harpy she is. He stumbles back to tell her what for, and Vox ends up on his lap during the shuffle.

“Holy shit, no wonder the kid’s bendin’ over for ya! Fuck me, that thing’s like a baby’s arm holdin’ an apple! _Please_ tell me you’re a shower.”

Alastor pauses. His filter, at this point in time, is shot to shit.

“Grower,” he declares.

Vox curses, wriggling on his lap. “How the fuck is any of that fair?”

Alastor shrugs, extricating himself as best he can from the uncomfortable situation. He shoves Vox off with little fanfare. Vox grumbles as he lands on his ass.

“Fuck you, Al,” he repeats. Alastor replies with an uncharacteristically obscene pantomime. Vox attempts to leap up and throttle him but only gets so far as the chair situated between them. He slumps over, possibly admitting defeat.

But then, Vox surprises him by rallying. He paws at Alastor’s leg, tugging on his trouser leg.

“Wanna start some shit?”

Alastor smiles back.

“Do I?”

* * *

“Where are those fuckers? We’re supposed to be heading down the street!”

“Careful what you wish for, Cherri, because-”

“Oh my god.”

A shopping cart flies past them. A man pedals it with one foot while the person inside the cart balances a traffic cone atop his head.

“Fuckin’ go faster, dick! That the best you can do, ya little bit- _watch that curb_!”

“ _Bec mon chu_ , you slimy- _fuck_!”

There’s a crash as the cart topples over, dumping both men into the grass. Alastor manages to right himself, but Vox yanks him back down by his suspenders in his confusion. They exchange blows: Vox at one point strangling Alastor, and Alastor at another suffocating him as he’s shoved into the freshly mowed lawn. The bystanders stare as the sprinklers switch on, drenching them as they continue their scuffle.

“Lovely evening for it,” a voice chimes to their right.

Charlie answers without thinking. “Quite.”

Vaggie startles at the sudden presence. The woman who materialized next to them is fastidiously dressed from her fascinator to her shoes. She grins, perfect rows of shining, white teeth. Vaggie jerks backward as the woman leans towards her.

“Idiots, the lot of them. I’d let them both tear each other apart like rabid dogs, but where’s the fun in that,” she says conspiratorially, shielding her mouth with a gloved hand. “In any case, they always pull their punches. I’m beginning to think they both would rather _miss_ each other if the other were to expire.”

Charlie appears oblivious to the danger. “Oh! I’m Charlie! Nice to meet you!” She loops Vaggie towards her with one arm, rubbing her cheek on hers. Vaggie softens at the habit.

“This is Vaggie,” she says, before pointing to Cherri, who clutches her sides, howling with laughter. “And that’s Cherri! Loona and Crymini are…er… _somewhere_ taking a smoke break.”

The woman’s smile widens. Vaggie suppresses a shudder.

“Rosie. Pleasure to be meeting you, dear. _Quite_ a pleasure.”

Vaggie furrows her brow as the strange sensation of déjà vu washed over her. She shrugs it off as she hears a war cry in the background.

Vox swings the traffic cone at Alastor, who barely dodges it. The kinetic force jostles him off-balance and he careens into the concrete. Alastor manages a bark of laughter before a foot sweeps out and catches him by the ankle. He, too, falls to the ground.

“I wonder what Angel and Pentious are up to,” Charlie wonders wistfully, as the two swap slaps.

Vaggie sighs as Rosie snaps her fingers, and the bouncers attempt to separate them. They get as far as lowering their guard when Alastor feigns exhaustion, slumping over, before catapulting forward again when he breaks free to headbutt Vox.

“I would say probably better than this mess, but knowing them, I doubt it.”

* * *

**Club, 1:00 am (0100 hrs)**

Angel sighs, nursing his drink. He scrutinizes the crowd, hand on one hip, and bored out his wits. The crowd seems listless, somehow. Or maybe that’s just him.

He glares at his watered-down drink. Nightlife used to be his Dionysian playground, the backdrops to numerous orgiastic revelries. Now, Angel is missing something, akin to a puzzle piece, gaping in the area left of his chest. His stomach sinks as he realizes why that is.

Or more precisely, _who_.

He leans back on the bar, elbows propping him up from behind. He used to enjoy nights out like this. Now though, without Alastor, everything seems so boring. Lacking focus.

Aimless.

Not for the first time that night, Angel wonders what Alastor’s doing.

“Hey, sugar,” a licentious voice oozes from nearby. “I liked your moves out there.”

He flicks his disinterested gaze to his left. “Thanks. Day job’s a boon for it.”

The man sidles up next to him, near enough that Angel can smell the tequila on his breath. He angles his body away as the man invades his space.

“Oh, a dancer? Yeah, ya look it. This _is_ my lucky night!”

Angel sneers. “Yeah, hard no, hon. I’m accounted for. My old man is waitin’ on me.” He crosses his arms and turns away, scanning the room for Pentious and the rest of his groomsmen.

“Aw, don’t be like that, sugar-tits. He ain’t here, right? C’mon babe, I’ll compensate ya for your time,” he murmurs, winding his arm around Angel’s waist.

“Besides,” he says, drunkenly scrabbling at his hips, “I know who ya are. You’re Valentino’s bitch. Knew I recognized ya from somewhere.”

Angel flinches and shoves him away. His heart pounds at the mention of his ex.

“Don’t ya fuckin’ touch me, ya limp-dicked piece of shit!”

The man ignores the warning and boxes him in, folding fingers around his chin. Angel snarls.

“Now, babe, I _like_ feisty, but I enjoy submission miles more. How ‘bout we call it a draw?”

Angel sneers, hackles rising. He tugs his chin from the slimy grasp, ready to follow through on a well-aimed kick when he spots movement at the corner of his eye. The thug’s friends shuffle at his periphery, readying themselves for a fight.

Or.

Angel is, without a doubt, outnumbered. He’s also separated from the rest of the bachelor party, and therefore lacks the luxury of backup.

However, Angel is hardly ever without street smarts. He shimmies in his leather boots, Alastor’s knife shifting with the momentum, tucked neatly inside.

He plasters on a false grin. “Sure, daddy,” he coos, dripping saccharine cheer. “Let’s go out back and I’ll show ya a good time.”

Leering, the man waves off his fellow goons. He follows Angel to the back rooms and into the shadows.

Later, in the process of switching venues, Pentious remarks on the sirens.

“Wonder what happened to warrant an ambulance outssside?”

Angel pats himself down, checking his clothes for wayward splatters.

“Beats me,” he says, grinning when his outfit appears flawless.

He blows a kiss at the stretcher. A wolf whistle blares out from the crowd. One of the EMTs blushes.

“Or _that_ poor bastard, I guess.”

* * *

**Strip club, 3:00 am (0300 hrs)**

Alastor parks his ass down on one of the fluffier chairs far away from the stage.

Thankfully, this venue is the last stop on Cherri’s list, and also the meet-up location for the rest of the wedding party. He’s never been to this cabaret before, not that he makes a habit of patronizing such dens of iniquity. He carves out exceptions for machismo business meetings, and others along those lines. The only private shows he frequents are Angel’s, but even that is a rare occurrence since it collides with his schedule.

He perks up at the very thought of Angel. Peering through the thickest beer goggles imaginable, he scans the room, hoping for a glimpse of his boyfriend. With a familiar pang, he realizes that he misses Angel. The thought sobers him. As best as it can, anyway. He is, without a doubt, drunker than Husk after Happy Hour.

From behind, someone snatches his glasses off his face. He turns to see if it is indeed Angel when a warm body plops into his lap. He’s tugged forward by his suspenders. Instinctively, he winds his arms around their waist, latching them in place. He’s greeted with a firm chest. He closes his eyes as he pillows his head.

Wait, he thinks as he mouths along their sternum. Something’s not quite right, he realizes, even as his head spins.

When did Angel change his cologne?

“Alastor,” the person coos. He grinds down, causing Alastor to inadvertently moan. His trousers tighten as the friction increases. His name sounds all wrong.

Is that a British accent?

“I’ve got a lonely hotel room and a _trove_ of roses for you, dear boy. I’ve _missed_ you so. All you have to do is stick that fat cock of yours inside my hot, tight-”

“Get the fuck off him, Stolas!”

Alastor finally hears the authentic version of Angel’s voice as the fiend is forcibly removed from his lap. He blinks as someone places his glasses back on his face. The world swims into focus once more. He brightens considerably.

He leans in for a kiss even though Angel looks relatively peeved.

He misses.

Rather significantly.

He rights himself as he yanks his face away from the front of Angel’s skirt. Somewhere, someone coughs. He smiles through his faux pas.

“Darling,” he sings.

He frowns as he observes Angel more closely. “I thought your twin was a woman, dear?” He shrugs. “Either way, you’re far more attractive.”

Alastor squints. “You _are_ the one on the right, are you not?”

“Holy shit. How wasted is he?”

Angel spins around to face Vox, narrowing his eyes. His manager clutches the head of a booth, clinging for dear life. He blearily attempts eye contact.

“Who? Oh, that fucker. Fuck him! I won, by the way. No ‘smatter what Rosie says. Also, that ain’t his fault. Stolas was tryin’ to take ‘vantage of his drunk ass. He thought it was you. Probably.”

Angel glares, crossing his arms. “And then what? Ya just was goin’ to let him take advantage of Al?”

“Fuck you, kid, I was gettin’ there,” he says, swaying. “Eventually.”

“Vox. You’re stupid. I hate you,” Alastor declares, grinning in triumph. Angel smacks his forehead, something he frequently does before counting down from ten.

“Babe, we have a fuckin’ flight tomorrow! Actually, _t_ _oday_! Ya know, for Cherri’s fuckin’ weddin’?”

Alastor opens his eyes. “Flight.”

“We have to get up at _eight_.”

“What time is it, now?”

“Three.”

“Splendid!” He brings his hand to his face, only knocking into it once. He splays his fingers. “We have five hours!”

“Oh, fuck! It’s that late? God fuckin’ dammit.” Vox feebly lifts his foot to kick in Alastor’s general direction. He fails miserably as his target sits a good three feet away.

“Radio,” he yells. “Another drink! On me!”

Angel rounds on him, baring his teeth. “Are ya insane? You’re both fuckin’ plastered! How the fuck is that supposed to help with anythin’?”

Vox tries to tap the side of his forehead with his finger but jabs his eye instead. “Ow.”

Alastor chortles, head lolling back into the chair. “Can’t be hungover if you don’t stop drinking in the first place, cher!”

Cherri appears with Pentious slung under her arm. Angel sends her quality stink-eye as he attempts to corral his drunk boyfriend. Cherri immediately puts her hands up.

“Look, Angie, ain’t my fault! I swear, we let him outta our sight for like, ten minutes, and the next thing we know, he and Vox are stumblin’ everywhere and slurrin’ every other sentence! The bar broad said they had a dumbass macho drinkin’ contest or some shit.”

She raises a brow. “How come you ain’t drunk?”

Angel scoffs. “Guess who hadda babysit your man?”

Cherri faces Pentious, who leans into her chest, nuzzling his face into the ample bosom. “That true, baby?’

“Preposssterousss,” slurs Pentious. Alastor thinks he might be lying, so he tells them so. He also adds that Pentious might have a lisp.

“I don’t have a lisssp,’ he argues, lisping.

“Ssstriped freak,” he accuses, even though Alastor is wearing pink. He looks down, just to check.

Oh, he thinks. The bow tie.

“This is _houndstooth_ ,” he corrects haughtily, pointing towards the approximate area of his neck.

“Plebeian,” he adds for good measure. Pentious sputters in indignation but it’s muffled by Cherri’s breasts. She hugs him tighter.

“Lisps are hot, babe. I love lisps. And you.”

Alastor smiles as Angel groans. His boyfriend has such an attractive voice.

“You have such an attractive voice, darling.”

Vox groans, and it’s not nearly as beguiling.

“Gay,” Vox hollers, eventually, after nodding off and waking up. In his upright position.

Alastor, homicidal maniac and bloodthirsty villain, fishes out and pitches a cocktail umbrella at him.

To no one’s surprise, it misses.

Angel hoists him up with the help of Pentious’s henchmen. Groomsmen. Whatever, Alastor thinks.

He’s stronger and heavier than he looks. He knows this because he was informed by Rosie and Vox during the shootout in Bangkok. Angel grumbles when he says as such.

As he kisses Angel’s neck, he hears, “I’m askin’ about that when you sober up, by the way.”

* * *

He teleports home.

There’s a brief altercation with Niffty and Husk. Husk spits out his nightcap while Niffty chirps merrily, clapping.

(“The flying fuck are ya _naked_? In our fucking kitchen? Eating a fucking _sandwich_?”

“Ah. My clothes were wet.”)

Fat Nuggets squeals happily as Alastor scoops him up. He sings a made-up ditty to their pet while tripping over suitcases. Angel finally wrestles him into bed, which he rather enjoys, and they waste another hour rutting against each other.

(“Mmm. You smell lovely, dear. What is that hidden note.”

“Blood, ya perv. Not mine.”

“I should hope not. Now come give us a kiss.”)

After their vigorous tumble, Alastor wraps his arms around Angel as Fat Nuggets snuffles between them. Alastor says _something_ , a haphazard but honest jumble of words that he soundly forgets. Angel’s subsequent reaction, though, etches in his mind.

“ _Idiota_ ,” he says, wiping his eyes. He kisses Alastor, tasting like mint. Alastor’s eyelids grow heavy and he finds himself fading.

“Go to sleep, babe. _Ti amo_ to you, too.”

* * *

Everything is too loud, too bright, and he is two seconds away from vomiting.

His head slowly detonates in short, sharp bursts. He focuses, not on walking, but on not stumbling.

“Al, I love ya, I do, but sometimes I ain’t exactly sure why.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He can attest to the feeling.

“Sir? Sunglasses off, please.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sir, this is an airport.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he whips them off. He narrows his eyes at Angel through blurred vision when he suspiciously mutters something that sounds like “Diva” under his breath. But from what little he can see, Vox and Pentious don’t appear to be faring any better.

The former crashes into the x-ray machine while taking off his belt, and the latter misses the bench completely and lands on the floor near his shoes. Angel grabs his arm, pitching him off-balance and he slams his shin into the stack of bins. Vox snickers, and Alastor shoots him a glare and an ungentlemanly gesticulation in his general direction.

Angel waits for them to clear security and shuffle on the plane before he broaches the subject. He digs his nails into Alastor’s bicep.

“Ya forgot the weapons, right?”

Alastor laughs despite his dry throat. It, predictably, comes out hoarse.

“My dear, we check those,” he exclaims between coughs. His amusement fades as Angel turns thunderous.

“Al, we are goin’ to a _wedding_. Not some kinda battleground melee fight club! What the fuck? Ya better not fuck up Cherri’s wedding, swear to God.”

No fellatio for a month, his mind helpfully supplies, filling in the blanks.

“Who, me?”

Alastor replaces his prescription aviators back on his face. Angel’s scowl darkens with the tint. He places his hand on Angel’s thigh, bracing for take-off.

Alastor grins, dancing his fingers up, which elicits a breathy gasp.

“Perish the thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Bec mon chu: Kiss my ass
> 
> 2\. Eternal hipster Alastor should stop wearing suspenders in present company.
> 
> 3\. Everyone checks the weapons. There's a form for that.
> 
> 4\. Sorry about the delay: sick, abused, dinner=coming soon, hopefully rapid-fire


	13. Kintsugi (Alastor/Angel Dust & Angel Dust/Valentino, Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room is warm, and it is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of drug use, physical abuse, abusive relationships, and sexual coercion

“Oh, Angel Cakes-”

He flinches at the tone.

“Yes, daddy,” he replies monosyllabically.

“Be a dear and have a seat on my good friend Asmodeus. He’s had _such_ a difficult day, dealin’ with some young arriviste.” Valentino grins, adjusting his sunglasses. The hearts taunt him, as usual. Angel hesitates, eyeing the newcomer warily.

First mistake.

“Angel, did I stutter?” Valentino’s brows furrow, the shade of his lenses cloaking his glare. The warning in his voice is mild, _for now_. Angel moves on command, lifting a leg to straddle the stranger’s lap. He’s yanked down by his hips.

He beats down the roil of revulsion. The man rolls his hips against Angel’s, rocking his swelling erection against the front of his shorts. He fondles Angel over his clothes, fingers adorned with ostentatious jewelry.

“This one is beyond nubile, Valentino, I must say. Better behaved and much more attractive than mine. I commend you on your excellent taste,” Asmodeus remarks as if discussing a wine, or a prized pet.

“Thank you, sugar. Broke him in myself.”

Angel’s lips curl in a snarl, but at Valentino’s behest he reels it in. Valentino chuckles at Angel’s impressive show of restraint. He lifts his glass in salute.

“Business or pleasure, first? Your pick.”

Asmodeus leers. Angel’s stomach drops.

“Pleasure first, methinks. Perhaps some clarity is what’s needed for this debacle.”

“To post-nut clarity,” Valentino agrees.

Shivers rake down his spine. He knows what or _who_ will be served up on a silver platter, tonight. Spoiler alert: it’s never someone other than him. Angel gulps, fixing them with a forced smile.

“Can I do a bump, daddy?”

Valentino cocks his head as if considering the question.

“Why not? They do make you more _pliable_.”

Angel vaults off the man’s lap. He stumbles to the table, hands trembling in anticipation. In the background, Valentino makes another joke at his expense, but Angel can’t hear it over the thudding in his ears. He crushes the pill with the cap of the medicine bottle, grinding it to a fine powder. The bill in his hands is rolled to a slender, cylindrical shape. With his index finger on his other hand, he presses down on his nose, effectively plugging one nostril.

Angel snorts the line on his knees at the feet of powerful men.

Nothing compares to how immensely small he feels.

The relief isn’t instantaneous, but he can sense it working: the drug muddily coursing its merry way in his veins, slamming all the receptors remaining in his busted mind and binding them in a brilliant show of mimicry.

He clambers back on to Asmodeus’s lap.

“Front or back?”

“Front. Heard this one lacks a gag reflex.”

“Another man’s trash.” Valentino smiles as he issues the command. He snaps his fingers and points down.

“Assume the position, babe. Time to put in that work.”

Angel’s arms move via invisible strings, and he capitulates.

* * *

The drug does its job.

He’s happy, yes. But it’s a false approximation of the real thing. A castrated imitation.

No matter.

He’ll take what he can get.

Valentino grips his hips so tight, he’s expecting to wake up to bruises. The stranger fucks into his mouth without inhibition or restraint. Angel goes through the motions, temporarily disassociating with his body to float high above them but facing away, so he doesn’t have to watch himself being used like a ragdoll.

Angel retreats to the recesses of his mind.

There are doors there, rooms that he can enter. Rooms brimming full of life: a warm blanket, cups of cocoa, and glow from a fireplace. Someone sings to him, but the silhouette is blurry and half-formed, like a face in a dream.

Angel is safe, there. Rancorous laughter bubbles around him, not derisive but celebratory. These voices don’t ridicule him. They don’t berate him and reiterate how worthless he knows he is. Instead, they ask him dopey questions like, “how was your day” and “what movie did you want to watch.”

You know, stupid questions like that.

The singing shade comes closer and envelopes him in warmth. Angel is fire, set alight. The mysterious singer chases away all cold.

As the chill retreats into parts unknown, Angel moves his fingers. He can feel them, once more.

Angel is safe.

That’s all Angel desires.

He’ll singe his wings for a glimpse of the sun.

* * *

Both men finish.

The conversation resumes, Angel a mere plaything between them.

He slumps over, hacking out dribbles of come. The men ignore him, continuing their discussion in louder tones.

It’s more than shame; it’s a little past rock bottom.

“Normally, he wouldn’t even be a blip on my radar. But this _boy_ is rising the ranks faster than anybody thought possible. Luci isn’t concerned, of course. The little shit evades him, and rightfully so. And therein lies the problem. He’s whip-smart, as far as those who met him can tell.”

Valentino adjusts his robe, picking at the threads with lacquered nails. “Who’s he come into contact with so far?”

“Frankie, Rosie, Vox, and a handful of others. He’s already offed three of our men and appropriated their territories. He’s quickly carving out a place for himself, and that’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“Any action on your end?”

Asmodeus clucks his tongue. Angel fights down a shudder.

“All quiet on the western front. Queer thing, that. He seems to be giving us fellow _souteneurs_ a wide berth.” He raises a brow, hand under his chin. “Any thoughts? Nefarious ideas?”

Valentino makes a show of pondering. He sips at his wine, swirling it for exaggerated effect. After a beat, he snaps his fingers. Angel instinctively stands at attention.

“Hmm. I _could_ invite that irritating upstart to one of my private parties. Gauge his threshold. _Tempt_ him,” he coos, smirking down at Angel’s reddened face. The other man tosses his head back and brays out a hyenic laugh.

“You think he’s stupid enough to participate in one of your orgies? Valentino, I adore your gumption, I do, but sources tell me that this one is a hard nut to crack. Pun definitely intended.”

Valentino waves him off. “Why not? Vox won’t join in. He’s too attached, sentimental prick that he is. And the thought of Rosie touching a man, even if he is a trap and fuckin’ gorgeous, is ludicrous.”

It’s me, Angel belatedly realizes. They’re talking about me.

Valentino grins, Cheshire-like, and a single gold tooth catches and twinkles under the lights.

“Oh, there won’t be an _orgy_. He’ll get a private, one-on-one session. With my favorite little darlin’, of course.”

Angel shuts his eyes, willing down the come and humiliation lodged in his throat. Sometimes he wants to cry in frustration, but these days, the well’s run dry and he finds himself all out of tears.

“Don’t be dramatic, hon. It’s not like we’re runnin’ train on you. You can take three at a time, so one ain’t the end of the world. I’ll make sure he’s clean. How’s that, sugar?” Valentino waves his arms in an arc, flourishing dramatically. “Besides, think of it as practice!”

He looms over Angel. “Time to work on that honeypot smile,” he says, pinching his cheek.

Asmodeus guffaws, lighting up a joint. Valentino joins in, and all but shoves Angel off his lap.

“Go get daddy a grinder and my pipe.”

Get it yourself, Angel thinks but doesn’t say. There’s a time for pride and one for subservience, and pride easily loses this round, attributing to fear of retribution.

“Yes, daddy,” he says, mechanically.

“Good boy.” Valentino turns his head towards Asmodeus. “Now Az, where are your manners?”

“Oh. Right. _Thank_ _you_ , Angel Dust. Thank you for your _service_.”

Angel’s nails bite into his palm, millimeters shy of drawing blood. “You’re welcome,” he spits. “Pleasure was all mine,” he mutters before stalking away.

After he exits and is sure that no one can see, he presses back against the wall and slides down, the heels of his palms digging into his sockets. He waits until he’s alone in his anguish.

Wrong again, he thinks as tears stream down his face.

There is still some (of himself) left.

* * *

What Angel doesn’t hear due to the distance and over the sound of his sobs:

“Now, how do you solve a problem like Alastor?”

* * *

He feels, oddly enough, rejected.

It’s preposterous, he knows. The man was respectful to the nth degree, and did nothing but steal a chaste kiss.

Speaking of.

Angel, with his back towards Valentino, indents the pads of his fingertips into his lips. The ghost of the kiss lingers. His lips tingle with what-could-have-been. The scent imprints in his mind, and Angel boxes it away in that room where no one else can enter. Right next to his crooning ghost.

“Ya know, this question’s been botherin’ me all night.” The tone alone is cloying enough to cause alarm. Angel tenses.

“Tell me, Angel Cakes, why didn’t he take the bait?”

Angel huffs, spinning on his heels, eking out the last of his bravado. “Fuck if I know. Maybe he ain’t attracted to me. One of them straights? Asexuals?”

Valentino sighs, tapping his chin. “Possibly.”

Angel returns to his task of undressing when Valentino says, “Or could it be that you said somethin’ to tip him off?”

A chill travels up Angel’s spine. He steps back, palms out in front of him.

Defensive.

“Val, whatevah ya think, that ain’t it. Check the cameras. I swear if ya just replay it-”

Valentino shushes him, and it takes everything in him not to snarl. He stiffens, anyway.

Valentino coolly notes the split-second reaction, Angel observes, his heart dropping.

One second, he’s loving.

There’s not enough time to react to the slap.

“You fuckin’ know just as well as I that the sound on those cameras are _shit_. The one guy who would possibly know that besides Bael is the fuckin’ asshole you were _supposed_ to have entertained.”

Angel cowers as he shields himself from the blows. His forearms throb with each strike. He staggers back as his boyfriend spews vitriol with every step.

“Ya tipped him off, didn’t ya, baby? Lookin’ for another way out? Too lazy to earn your keep? Or was it that ya thought he was your ticket? That he was gonna swing a u-turn and come back for your little whore ass?” He spits, and it hits Angel square in the face, despite his best efforts to block it.

“You think you’re worth that much?” He whips out his cell phone. Angel flinches. “Let me call Vox, babe, so I can grab his number. I’ll offer him you for fifty. See if he’ll even take it, or if he’ll try to fuckin’ _haggle_.”

Black spots mar his vision. His breath comes quicker, and his chest heaves with equal parts exertion and exhaustion. His heart jackrabbits and skips. He licks his lip and his tongue returns with the coppery taste of blood. Valentino wears his rings for a reason, as Angel was rudely reminded of it moments ago. And now, he supposes.

A hand lurches out and grips his wrists, twisting them to his side. Another tries to pry open his mouth as he struggles, neck-deep in his panic.

“Open,” Valentino commands from far, far away.

Angel closes his eyes and walks into the room.

He’s greeted with cedarwood and pepper.

Angel obediently opens his mouth, breathing through his nostrils. Valentino force-feeds him the pill.

He swallows.

In time, his heart slows. He slumps to the ground, sluggish. He sinks, a marionette given slack by its strings. Valentino scoops him up as he lies, inert.

“Now, Angel, look what you made me do. You know I _hate_ losing control like that. You just drive me crazy, doll. Look how jealous ya made me.” He kisses his cheek, sweet and loving again, just like that.

The physical pain is nothing compared to the cavernous fault splitting deeper still, between the existing splinters of his collapsing heart.

* * *

The upside: the bruises will bloom like flowers.

* * *

Later, Valentino crawls into his bed and soothes him with empty but captivating promises.

He begins with the excuses, first.

“You know I don’t mean to do that, honey. It’s just you. You bring out the most _powerful_ emotions in me. I ain’t never loved anyone like I love you, and that drives me _wild_ , babe.”

Valentino hoists him onto his lap, pawing at the exposed skin.

“I just got so jealous at the thought that ya might’ve wanted him over me.”

So it goes, in this disastrous merry-go-round. Angel accepts his apologetic kiss, because, well, what can he do?

He pinches Angel’s ass, lovingly cupping his cheek with a wide hand and admiring the brand set there, no doubt.

“Oh, sugar, we need to fatten you up. You’re gettin’ so thin. Cake is in, baby. Ain’t nobody gonna pay for this if ya keep losin’ weight.”

He just nods, drowsy from the effects of the benzo. His appetite diminishes, day by day. He can hardly bring himself to eat, let alone tumble out of bed most days. Whether it’s drugs or sex, Angel oscillates from one extreme to another.

He keeps thinking that one of them will grant him peace. Angel is nineteen, and he doesn’t quite grasp the idea of the happy medium. And between the intersecting effects of the drugs and the blunt-force trauma, the nausea just. Won’t. Leave.

“Angel,” he sing songs. “Did you hear me?”

With his free hand, he deliberately pushes down on Angel’s newest bruise. He kneads his palm in the mockery of a massage, and Angel winces, muted as the pain is from the narcotic effects of the painkiller.

“Yes,” he gasps out, twisting to retreat from the touch. “I hear ya, daddy.”

He grabs Angel’s chin, ceasing the assault on his side. Valentino guides his face towards him, tightening fingers over his jaw.

“And?”

“I’ll gain weight, baby.”

Angel tries to hold eye contact. His sight glazes over from the dual effects of the drugs, and with the familiar but strange sensation of tears. Valentino kisses him, full on the mouth. This time, it’s soft and soothing. Angel automatically returns it, starved as he is for affection.

At this point in time, Angel is nineteen and holds no illusions anymore.

What a low bar, he thinks, submitting to the kiss.

* * *

It scrapes at him until he’s rubbed raw.

He wonders when these wounds will heal.

And if he’s cursed with the scars for the rest of his life.

* * *

“Holy shit, Angie. What the fuck happened to you?”

Cherri stares at him in their shared mirror. Six of the twenty or so lightbulbs are dead, and the rest buzz in disquieting but harmonious notes. He keels over, clutching at his sides at the sudden flash of pain. She moves to help him, but he puts up a hand.

“Cherri, I love ya, but this time, mind ya business. Please.” His hands shake something fierce as he rights himself. Cherri acquiesces, but not before walking over and squeezing his shoulder, where it’s not bruised.

He’s not the first stripper to go through this, and he won’t be the last. But it means the world, all the same, when Cherri sits aside him in silent vigil and gently rubs his arm.

They both know what the other won’t say. Family, was there such a fanciful notion to begin with, won’t step in. They’ve been disavowed, disowned, and abandoned years ago. Police? Authorities turn up their noses at sex workers.

But the main thing, the vilest and deplorable thing, for lack of a better word, is that Angel will not leave.

He maintains the idea that Valentino is the best thing that’s happened to him so far.

Right?

There’s a roof over his head. He’s never shamed for being who he is. (Except when he isn’t) And Valentino loves him.

Right?

Anyway, it’s bound to get better, especially when he proves his worth to Valentino, and fixes all the abhorrent foibles and idiosyncrasies about himself. He’ll gain weight, quit talking back and interrupting, fold the sheets the correct way, keep silent when it hurts, and stop singing in the shower when he’s on the phone.

Then, Valentino will have no choice but to love him.

Right?

He suppresses the dam as he dabs the concealer over his eye. The wetter the worse, he thinks.

He winces at the dull throb of pain. He keeps at it, regardless.

After all, no one wants a show from a stripper with a black eye.

* * *

Call it courage, call it folly, but Angel finally leaves.

He scours the internet and finds a man who’s willing to fund an apartment as long as he’s discreet. He presses: send.

He packs a bag and hopes for the best.

One day, he promises.

One day, he’s going to find someone that loves him.

The words fall flat, even to his ears.

* * *

One day, Angel walks up the stairs and notices a door cracked open.

Angel hardly sees his mysterious second roommate in the months he’s lived in this house. He remembers him from the initial interview, but other than noting his attractiveness, he hasn’t bothered to investigate much further.

Small wonder Angel is filled with jittery anxiety when he spots the door ajar. He tiptoes to it, daylight sluicing through the crack in the seam, streaming between his toes and across the tops of his feet. He reaches the split, peeking inside.

Alastor types, fingers dancing in a practiced tempo. He’s focused, or appears to be, with his stiff jaw and upright posture. In this diffuse light, his hair appears haloed, the glare from his glasses adding to the ethereal effect.

The speakers near him chime on, and a singer begins their song.

At first, Alastor gives no heed to anything other than his work. Over time, however, his breath dips and hitches with the modulations in the songs. He hums first, a few bars, then lends his euphonious voice to the late-afternoon siren song.

Most of Angel doesn’t want to disturb him, but a rebellious part of him does. The whole scene plays out like a painting, and Angel wants to reach out and _touch_ and trail fingers down the wet paint, just to prove that he was there. Leave his mark, somehow.

He coughs.

Alastor’s head bobs up and he spins around in his chair. He smiles, and it’s the sunshine after the rain. All those breaking clouds.

“Hello, Angel,” he says. “Did you need something?”

Off-balanced, Angel freezes, and frantically searches his mind. He snatches the third thought that comes to it, hot on the heels of “Can I suck your dick” and “Yes, you”.

“Rent,” he practically yells. “Did Husk give ya my share? I left it on the counter, and I just wanted to double-check.” He resists the compulsion to slam his head into the doorframe.

Alastor quirks an eyebrow. “Yes? I picked it up yesterday. Thank you for your expeditious contribution. In all my years of knowing him, I have yet to witness Husker do the same.”

Angel feigns relaxation and leans into the wall, folding his arms. “Is he often late with rent?”

“Mmm. I’ve had to cover his share more than once. It’s infuriating, but I’ve come to accept it as another character flaw of his.”

Uncertainty boils in his stomach. He forces a smile. “What about me? Any glarin’ flaws that I should know about?”

Alastor tilts his head, humming. The music continues in the background, but Angel doesn’t register it anymore. Under Alastor’s scrutinizing gaze, he feels naked, and not in his preferred way. Something predatory paces underneath his comely veneer, a demon that Angel recognizes from years of experience with Valentino. Angel usually practices good sense and avoids those types of men. One would think this circumstance warrants a similar, sane reaction.

Far from it.

He bypasses all gut instinct to fly directly into the sun.

“Hmm…no!” Alastor purses his lips, tapping at his chin. “Can’t say that I notice anything glaring about you, flaws or otherwise! Why, you seem perfectly fine.”

With that, Angel falls back into his old routine. He smirks, cocking a hip and teasing his horns. “Just fine?”

Now, Alastor freezes. To both Angel’s chagrin and glee, the expression lasts for a split second.

A wolfish smile replaces it.

“Perfect,” he purrs.

Angel’s heart picks up speed, its arrhythmic beat pounding in his ears. He snags his lower lip with his teeth, and he matches Alastor’s smile.

Then, the front door slams, and the trance breaks.

Husk curses from downstairs, the words circulating like heat, rising upwards. Angel has never, in his life, wanted to strangle his roommate more.

Alastor yawns, then stretches. Angel’s greedy eyes follow the trail of hair up to where the rest is covered by cotton.

“Well, time for work, I suppose. All play makes a dull boy. Is that how it goes?” He grins playfully, skirting the line of flirtatious. He makes a grand show of standing up, tucking his laptop under his arm.

He walks to the door where Angel unsteadily stands.

“Is that all, Angel?”

It’s the way he says his name, curling his lips around it like it’s something decadent.

Angel nods.

Alastor squeezes past him, brushing against his front. For a brief and brilliant moment, they face each other and everything is _electric_. Their chests touch, their legs entangle, and this close, Angel can parse out the freckles in his dark eyes. Alastor watches him with open curiosity and with another indeterminate emotion that flickers behind his glasses.

The scent folds around him like a warm sweater. A wood-burning fire in the middle of a snowstorm night. It coils around him like a predator, a burgeoning affection, an almost lover.

Cedarwood and pepper notes.

His eyes widen. Impossible, he thinks.

_And yet._

Electric, one moment.

But, like all fantastical things, it passes.

The emptiness in his chest is much more palpable when Alastor moves past him and walks towards the staircase. He pauses, and Angel’s heart twists.

“Oh, and Angel?”

“Yeah?”

“Have a good night.”

Angel helplessly watches him leave.

He isn’t so blind as to believe in fate and all that nonsense. Practicality has been beaten into him by this junction. Living on the streets and adopting savvy know-how molded him into someone less rounded, and more serrated. But it would be a lie to say that Angel completely suffocated that hopeless romantic living inside of him. Over time, he’s allowed the seed to take root and grow.

Angel will be damned if he'll let Valentino stifle his capacity to love.

From that point forward, he tunes in to Alastor’s radio show with increasing frequency. It becomes habitual to do so, and whenever possible, he muffles his ears with headphones just to enhance that opening croon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear listeners, this is Alastor, your Radio Demon. As ever, thank you for tuning into the show. Let me preface today’s topic by introducing a funny little anecdote…”

Angel cushions his head on his arms and listens to the rest of the broadcast.

He falls asleep to dulcet tones.

* * *

“Oh, Angel, dear?”

“Yes, daddy?”

“Will you be a dear, pet, and fetch the wine opener from the cupboard?”

“Get it yourself.”

Alastor sighs and pushes himself up by the arms of the chair. Angel laughs, sailing past him.

“Just jokin’. Sure, babe.”

Alastor chuckles, all mirth.

“Thank you, dear.”

“No prob, babe.” Angel slinks over and deposits it and himself into his lap. Alastor grunts at the added weight and compensates for it with an anchoring hand over his ass and another on his thigh.

Husk groans from across the room.

Both men ignore him.

As Angel drapes himself over Alastor, he fiddles with the corkscrew, eyes vacant and unseeing. He jerks his head up at the loud mention of his name as if it came from far away.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Alastor furrows his brow. “Nothing of import, dear. Is there anything wrong?”

He smiles. It comes out a little forlorn if Alastor’s expression is any indication.

“Just thinkin’. It’s kinda nice not to get smacked around for a change, ya know? For sayin’ whatever ya want.”

Alastor goes stock still. Still as night.

Still as death.

“He did what.”

His voice is quiet, much too even and measured to sound anything less than lethal. He glances over at Husk, and they share a dark look before Husk gets up and excuses himself from the room.

“I mighta deserved it,” Angel admits. “I run my mouth. A lot.”

He tries to laugh. It breaks off in his throat.

There is no humor left in Alastor’s face. His nostrils flare as he bridles his temper. He only marginally succeeds, and Angel suspects that it’s mostly for his benefit.

“I apologize. I’m not…there’s something I’m failing to grasp, here. Please elucidate. Or not. Let me get this straight: he hit you. He _hit_ you because you did not comply with what he wanted you to do. What he wanted you to be.”

“Bingo, I guess? That wasn’t even half of it. Barely scratches the surface. I mean, _now_ I can see how fucked up it was, but back then…”

He looks at Alastor, dead on. His gaze and voice are unwavering when he says:

“I loved him, once upon a time.”

Alastor bares his teeth, beside himself and gnashing. He only barely manages to keep from breaking the chair arms. The wood creaks.

“He didn’t deserve you.”

“Didn’t he,” Angel whispers, folding back within himself, where all the sad and loathsome things are trapped inside. It’s a pretty box, a striking shell, but the inside is subfusc and deadened.

Or so he thought.

Alastor moves closer, careful not to spook him. In the beginning, they were forced to navigate through tricky subjects, their own shortcomings. Alastor, for one, abhors loud noises outside of his control. Angel flinches at rapidly moving targets and crumples under intensive criticism. Alastor doesn’t respond well to pressure, if the growing list of missing persons is anything to go by. Angel, having been locked in enough closets to account for a lifetime of deviant behavior, is claustrophobic.

For them and many others, the broken remnants of their pasts, tattooed indelibly on their souls, makes for a rocky future.

Alastor gingerly pulls Angel’s arms apart, unfolding them from the protective stance around his torso. He replaces them with his own. Angel tries, so very hard, to keep it together.

He fails miserably.

“He’s an inoperable tumor of a man,” Alastor snarls, “who deserves his comeuppance.”

Angel tightens his hold, and Alastor cages his temper, for the time being. He sighs, aiming for soothing and reassuring instead, hand cradling the back of his neck. He noses Angel’s throat, heedless of the tears.

“That was then, cher. And this is now.”

Angel sits up and rests his chin atop Alastor’s head.

“Broken things are hard to fix,” he murmurs.

“You are _not_ broken.”

Angel is hard-pressed not to doubt the sincerity from the ferocity of his words. Alastor winds their fingers together, exhaling slowly. Angel can almost feel him restraining his rage. He exhales, a soft stream of breath near Angel’s sternum.

“Are you aware of the Japanese art, _kintsugi_?”

Angel shakes his head, ruffling Alastor’s hair in the process.

“It’s the craft of repairing broken lacquerware with golden seams.” He pulls apart so that Angel can see his face. It’s open and unobstructed, for once, and lacks the mask of mysterious half-truths that he enjoys wearing. An unusual light shines behind his eyes.

“Beauty in brokenness,” he says. “Made more resplendent in spite of it.”

Something inside him unlatches and soars free.

One day, Angel remembers promising, as they lean in, noses brushing.

Today.

(The scars will still be present, but they will be _gold_ )

* * *

The sunset bathes the world in blood.

Alastor cracks his neck, feeling the aches and pains of the day. He drums his fingers on the desk, humming an otherwise unremarkable tune. His ankle rests right above his knee as he ruminates on the day’s discoveries. Or rather, the confirmation to his earlier suspicions.

“Just say the word, boss.” It snaps him out of his reverie. Husk cracks his knuckles, cliché but well-meant.

“Best to be prudent for now. Feel it out, so to speak, then wait until he drops his guard. Strike while the iron’s _hot._ ”

As an aside, he loftily adds, “Tit-for-tat where it’s due, I think.”

His confrère nods. “Sure thing. Can Niffty get on this too? She’s been dying to try out some of her new shit.”

“Of course! The more the merrier! I’m _dying_ to see it, myself!”

He smiles placidly. He steeples his fingers, and bides his time.

The encroaching darkness seeps inside the house, fingers of ink clawing their way towards the inner sanctums. Umbra cloaks him like a well-worn coat, and the peculiar angle of the light casts shadows beyond his crown and paints the wall in what appears as thorny thickets.

Or, by some breadth of imagination, _antlers_.

He widens his grin.

Let the cards fall where they must, he thinks.

And let slip the dogs of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Opiate addiction/dependence is god-awful. There’s always a bigger price to pay. 
> 
> 2\. Mixing opiates and benzos is dangerous. For more information: https://www.drugabuse.gov/drug-topics/opioids/benzodiazepines-opioids
> 
> 3\. Abuse can be insidious. Gaslighting is a poison. National Domestic Violence Hotline (US): 1-800-799-7233
> 
> 4\. Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: "Cry 'Havoc!,' and let slip the dogs of war."


	14. Ring (Alastor & Rosie & Vox + others, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA idiots attempt to shop for wedding rings

“Rosie.”

She continues walking.

“Rosie.”

It’s a marvellous day.

“Rosie.”

Mostly sunshine, with a smattering of clouds here and there.

“Rosie.”

She sighs.

“Yes, Alastor?”

“What the hell are you playing at?”

He halts, resolutely stubborn as usual, which causes her to pause mid-stride. She’s half tempted to dig her nails into his bicep and lie but thinks twice of it.

“Why, darling, what makes you think that?” she asks, blithely side-stepping the question.

He snatches his arm back with the intent of shaking her off, but she clings on like a cat to curtains. He scowls, madly shaking his arm.

“You’ve failed to mention _who_ we’re meeting at the destination-”

“Wedding ring shop.”

“ _Wedding ring shop_ , and I’m getting a terrible premonition as to who it might be.”

“Perhaps it was something you ate.”

He lifts a brow. Rosie is only minorly impressed at how he manages to look both tetchy and patronizing at the same time. She yanks his arm back.

“It’s a surprise,” she fields. She’s aware that giving the game away now would send him running for the hills. For someone so vociferously opposed to chasing, he’s surprisingly sprightly.

He scoffs. “Now you’re just being cryptic.”

“Trust me,” she insists, dishonestly. He gives her a sceptical look and huffs out a long breath. His dimples indent deeply as he sets his jaw. He rearranges his expression into something much more apropos of the setting. He’s dashing when he smiles, but there’s something to be written about his stormier moods. Rosie appreciates the polarity. She’s sure that Angel must too.

He squints heavenwards. “I don’t know why it had to be today, of all days.”

“Anything better to do?”

He pettily ignores her when she calls his bluff.

They stroll onward, basking in the beaten gold afternoon, as they spot the brightly coloured canopies nestled over the oasis of shops. Onlookers flick shy glances at the smartly dressed couple. They pass the coffee shops and boutique stores until their feet stop before translucent double doors. Alastor stares directly at the signage.

 **The Pearly Gates** , it reads.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Nevertheless, he trudges on, even if it’s with the same demeanour of one walking to the gallows. She offers him no help as he pulls the door open. Out of some misplaced sense of propriety, he flourishes his arm in a welcoming, albeit sardonic, motion, indicating for her to enter first.

Rosie brushes past him.

She doesn’t deign to answer the rhetorical question.

* * *

She strangles his arm in a python’s grip and points to the display case.

It’s mostly to keep him from bolting.

Or attacking. One or the other.

“Take a gander at this one, darling! It’s positively stunning.”

Alastor tries in vain to detach her. He appears to contemplate gnawing off his arm if his foul expression is any indication.

“Release me, you traitorous harpy,” he hisses.

“Stop being a _child_. He’s here for good reason. I wouldn’t have invited him if he didn’t have use.”

“Gee, thanks, Rosie. And hello to you too, asshole.”

Alastor glares at both of them. “I don’t suppose you could’ve asked Husker, or literally _any_ other person besides this half-witted simpleton.”

Vox grins nastily. “You heard the broad. I’m here for a reason, ballsack. You should be fuckin’ grateful I’m willin’ to help you and your”-Rosie harrumphs in warning-“ _boyfriend_ out.”

“Any help from _you_ is unwarranted and unwanted.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand. Vox fires back with a rude gesture. Rosie steps between them, mindful of their reaches.

“Alastor. Better the devil you know. Anyway, he’s imperative to this mission.”

“Pray tell, _how_ will he be helpful? This troglodyte can’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.”

“Hey.”

“Couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery.”

“Hey!”

“He’s as much use as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”

“Listen, asshole-”

“As useful as a chocolate teapot.”

“You guys are just fuckin’ enjoyin’ it now.”

Alastor smiles, canines flashing. “Maybe!”

Rosie turns to face him, so she misses Vox’s response, but judging by Alastor’s eye twitch, it’s nothing short of offensive. She pokes his chest to revert his attention.

“My point still stands. Vox knows a great deal more about your beau’s jewellery preferences, and he’s a dab hand at it, himself.”

“It?”

She says, “Wedding aesthetics” at the same time Vox insists, “Kicking your ass.”

Alastor steps forward at the proclamation. She jabs a finger in his face.

“I’d argue that Vox has known Angel far longer than you.”

“And? That makes no diff-you _are_ doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Yes. My sole goal in life is to make sure you boys become bosom buddies. _No_ , you idiot. This is for your benefit as well as your fiancé’s. It won’t kill you both to play nice, once in a bloody while.”

“Actually-”

“As a matter of fact-”

“Shut up. Both of you.” She waggles her finger at Alastor, who looks sufficiently chastised. Then again, knowing the prat, he could be faking it just to lull both of them into a false sense of security. Vox prattles on, unaware of the risk, as always.

“Whatever. Anyway, round cuts are classic but overdone, IMO”-“ _In my opinion_ ,” Alastor pettily corrects while Vox flicks him off-“and ya can’t really go wrong with princess or emerald. The kid once mentioned he liked hearts, but that could potentially be cheesy down the line. Ain’t ever seen no old ladies with heart-shaped rings.”

They goggle at him. He scoffs. “What? I know my shit, assholes! I watch that damn show all the time.”

“Oh, marvelous. Thought you were concealing a hidden partner or other, which in hindsight is ridiculous, because who in their mind, without it being lobotomized, would agree to marry you?”

“You watch a wedding show? Of your own volition?”

“First of all, fuck you, asshole. Secondly, it’s a fuckin’ solid show! You guys could learn a goddamn thing or two.”

“I’m learning so much right now,” Alastor mutters, adjusting his glasses. “Against my will.”

“I ain’t the one proposin’, dickhead. You should be on your knees and thankin’ me, ya prick.”

“Your preoccupation with my penis and me on my knees is rather crude and unnecessarily subtextual. Projecting, much?”

“You son of a bitch-”

“If you idiots get us kicked out of a bloody wedding ring shop, so help me, I will twist your bollocks off with my bare hands then castrate you both as the circulation deadens and they dangle uselessly in the breeze.”

The sudden silence is refreshingly welcome.

Rosie straightens up, exponentially chipper. “Agreed on all counts, Vox. Stupendous insight.” She turns to Alastor, who’s pretending not to listen. “He has a point, dear. Heart cuts are fetching, but can be rather twee, don’t you find?”

She glides to the second case, and almost clears it before one of the idiots opens their gob.

“Yeah, plus we don’t know if the connotation would be negative, ya know, considerin’-”

Rosie swings around and pinches him. He yelps.

“What?”

“Not the _time_ , Vox.”

“Oh, come on! This bitch knows all about his ex. Don’t see why we gotta beat around the damn bush-”

Alastor slams into him with the force of an enraged buck. He pins Vox against the glass case, the blade a centimetre from his jugular. His hands are steady, but his eyes flash, wild, and a whisker from deranged. The shopkeepers judiciously duck under their wares, shielding their heads with their arms in the likely event of breaking glass. One of the ladies seems glad for her hijab. Someone whimpers under a chair.

“Bring him up again, and it’s your other eye or your ear. Choose _wisely_.”

“Jesus fuck! All right, all right! Fuckin’ calm down, tiger.”

Vox lifts his hands slowly in the universal symbol for truce or surrender. Face locked in a snarl, Alastor seems to regain his bearings after a long moment. He begins to employ the controlled breathing techniques they all learned as marksmen. Rosie and Vox trade disquieted glances at the degree of aggravation demonstrated, but knowing both parties, it’s to be expected.

A handful of heartbeats pass, and Alastor eventually slackens his hold. Vox uses this opportunity to shove him off. Rosie hums something that suspiciously sounds like “I told you so” but it’s just muted enough to evade accusation. Alastor and Vox glare at her regardless. Unfazed, she once again latches on to Alastor and steers him away from the other man.

“I wonder if he’d like something more colourful? Is he more of the traditional type or contemporary?”

The employees slowly crawl out from under the counter. Rosie beckons to one of the braver, less wobbly ones.

“You there. _Nadia_. May we see this one?”

The girl takes a deep breath and one for the team. The others incline their heads in solemn memoriam.

“It’s for him! Well, his fiancé,” Rosie cheerfully declares, pointing to her compatriot who is in the process of tucking his weapon back in its sheath. “He’s the lucky fellow!”

The workers share sceptical looks.

Nadia, the brave lass, swallows but rallies. “Of course, ma’am. This design can be customized, well, gem-speaking, and comes with a locking wedding ring.”

Alastor asks, “What’s the difference?” and Vox blinks owlishly from behind him. Rosie puts a finger to her lips but also gives Alastor an incredulous look. Nadia, an experienced salesperson, wisely keeps her face blank.

“Ah. Well, sir, the engagement ring is the pinnacle of all wedding jewelry. That’s your typical ring used in proposals and such. The wedding ring is a separate ring that is presented and placed on your partner’s finger during the actual ceremony. Many people wear them together, and we have some fantastic interlocking styles for ease of wear, but it’s not necessary to purchase both. Especially if you’re on a budget.”

He visibly twitches at the word, “budget”, and she sensibly makes note of it from her next suggestion. “But, if the sky’s the limit, we can most assuredly go with traditional dual rings.”

He nods, albeit jerkily. He doggedly faces in Vox’s direction, apparently using the last speck of strength inside him to grit through clenched teeth, “Which do you think he’d prefer?”

“Aw, Radio, you’re askin’ me? Call me fuckin’ flattered!”

Alastor closes his eyes, possibly praying for guidance.

Or attempting to restrain himself from homicide. It’s a toss-up really, she thinks.

Rosie breaks through his reverie by pinching his cheek. The lower one.

Alastor jolts.

Vox brays like the donkey he is, but Rosie doesn’t stray from the cause. She squares her shoulders and marches towards Vox, who squeaks, “Only jokin’, Al! Traditional! The fuckin’ kid wants traditional!”

“Traditional,” Rosie repeats to Nadia, pivoting on her heel in an impressive turnabout. The salesperson scurries around the display, pulling out the drawers with the most appropriate pieces.

The trio huddle around the glass, spectating with interest as she plucks the rings from their dimpled cushions. Multifaceted faces sparkle under the overhead lights. Iridescent to the point of near blindness, the prismatic gems range from simplistic to practically byzantine. Alastor drums his fingers on the glass, an unconscious gesture that Rosie recognizes as anticipation. She ignores the way her heart warms at the sight.

Vox snorts, tucking his hands inside his pockets. “Honestly? The kid would love whatever ya get him. I mean, so long as it’s from you, he’d treasure the fuck outta it.”

“Oh, Vox. That was borderline romantic,” Rosie coos, clasping her hands together.

“I resent that. I’m plenty romantic!”

“Is that why you’re single?”

“Don’t get me started, asshole. You dicked down your fuckin’ _roommate_! That’s the laziest shit I’ve ever heard! Like shootin’ fish in a barrel, only it’s your jizz instead of bullets. From what he’s told me, you guys went on your first date months after ya popped your dick in his buss-”

Rosie smacks him dangerously close to his crotch. He whimpers, doubling over. Alastor prudently backs away, bending over in a protective stance.

“Be that as it may, at least I have some semblance of romance. Unlike you,” he manages before scampering to the corner farthest away from Rosie. Nadia, ever the professional, graciously hoists and moves the selection to his new retreat.

Rosie rubs her temples. “Mark my words: one day I’ll end the both of you.”

Vox limps around her, sneaking closer to the same corner that Alastor cowers at. The enemy of my enemy indeed, thinks Rosie crossly.

“The females are the deadlier ones,” whispers Alastor from the corner of his mouth as Vox sidles up next to him.

“Preachin’ to the choir,” Vox whispers back.

“I’m standing right here, you wankers.”

Sensing a ceasefire, Nadia settles in the aforementioned corner and presents the now-duo with another slew of options. Emboldened by Rosie’s threats, both men appear to be finally in agreement, or at least cahoots. Alastor nods at Vox’s suggestions and the latter tones down his abrasiveness as they discuss the matter in hushed tones. Vox whips out his phone, swiping through the snippets of Cherri’s and Angel’s conversation.

“This one”-he points to the screen as Alastor crowds against him-“is his favorite. It’s not crazy flashy, but just enough to rub it in everyone’s face.” He swipes across to the next one.

“He likes a thicker band, but not _too_ thick if ya get my drift, haha. Okay, fine. Fuck. I’m stoppin’ now. Anyway, I’d personally go with this.” He holds his phone next to the rings, comparing each one to the two pictures.

Alastor picks one up, examining it between his thumb and forefinger. “This design looks promising.”

Vox cranes his head over. “Yeah. Band’s a touch too thin, though. Widen it a little and bump it up a carat, and we might have a winner.”

Rosie huffs, joining them, their guards sufficiently lowered.

“Friends again, I see. Capricious gits.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“A bit? It’s _gaping_! I fuckin’ hate his guts.”

“Yes, same to you, dear. Let’s not disturb the status quo,” Alastor snipes.

“Dick.” Vox gestures to several of the rings. “So we’re down to these two. If I were you, I’d take a picture and sleep on it. Don’t rush into it. I can grill the kid more about his preferences later.”

Rosie’s struck by the offer. She glances at Alastor, who seems to be failing to make heads or tails out of the situation. He looks, for lack of a better word, constipated.

He stiffly snaps a picture with his phone. “Thank you,” he forces out. Vox lifts his hands to sarcastically clap but thinks better of it when Rosie slits her eyes. Scowling, he sets his hands back down.

“Whatever, man. Just don’t propose on your anniversary or any birthdays and shit. That’s no bueno.”

Alastor furrows his brow. “Why not?”

Vox gawks. “Holy shit, ya really are clueless.”

“And you watch far too much television,” he sassily retorts.

“Tell me, shit-for-brains, ever been in a relationship before? Like a legit one, and not with Palm-ala over there?”

“You’re vile.”

“Answer the question.”

He sniffs. “How hard could it be? It’s been going swimmingly so far.”

Vox gapes as Rosie unsuccessfully bridles an incredulous whine.

“What?” he demands, immediately defensive.

“Does he hold your dick while ya piss too?”

“For your information, I don’t particularly enjoy that type of play-”

“Fuck’s sake! _Joking_! I was just joking! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Rosie clears her throat. “Gentlemen. Can we please return to the matter at hand?”

“Yes, Mother,” they say in unison. They grin, and Rosie once again hears the high-five slap produced by imbeciles. She massages her temples for what feels like the hundredth time.

Vox motions to another ring in the adjacent case. Rosie wrinkles her nose. It’s nothing like the other styles, and ostentatious at best. She raises her brow. He shoots her an undecipherable look as Alastor declares, “No.”

“What? Ain’t your taste? Not supposed to be for you, ya know.”

“I know that, you Neanderthal.”

“What is your taste, anyway? Probably gaudy and-or prissy. Nothin’ that us _peons_ ”-he does a high-pitched and rather insulting imitation of Alastor’s voice-“would wear.”

“Peons is accurate,” Alastor mutters. “And, no. I’d prefer something much more simplistic than that.”

“Like this?”

Now being deliberately obtuse, he signals to a ring laden with tiny diamonds encrusting the entire band. Alastor curls his lip in disgust. 

“Of course not,” he says, affronted. “One small stone is sufficient. Flawless, preferably. Thick for durability. Practicality should outweigh bells and whistles. You, out of all people, should know than ostentatious jewelry is suicide in the field, especially for a sni-”

Rosie hurriedly stamps on his foot. He whimpers. She glares at him while he grimaces in pain. He returns it, lifting his foot, fruitlessly trying to massage it through the leather.

“Was that _necessary_ ,” he hisses. “What on earth are those made of? Daggers? Icicles from your frozen heart?”

“Snakeskin, I think. By the bye, did you purchase those gorgeous heels I spotted your beau in the other week? Envy isn’t usually one of mine, but my goodness!”

Alastor hobbles, balancing on one foot. He clicks his tongue. “You mean the six hundred dollar ones? _Yes_ , as a matter of fact.”

The salespeople finally perk up at the beckoning whiff of commission. An intrepid soul wanders closer to him. Nadia snaps like a dragon protecting her hoard. They back off.

Vox whistles. “Fuck. Someone’s a sugar daddy.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It _means_ , you tosser, that you’re not as hopeless as we think you to be.” He opens his mouth to protest, but Rosie leans in, all faux matronly warmth, and pinches his cheek. The upper one.

“Let’s finish this up, darling, so you can reunite with your vivacious lover.”

He yanks his face away, deliberately turning away from them. Rosie and Vox magnanimously pretend to miss the way his smile softens.

Or the naked affection reflected in his eyes.

* * *

“Peckish, Vox? We were thinking dim sum.”

From behind him, Alastor exaggeratedly shakes his head, looping an invisible noose around his neck and bending his head at an angle. She rolls her eyes.

“Nah, I’m good, Rosie. I got a hot date.”

Alastor predictably gags. Vox whirls around and chucks a box of cigarettes at him. He snatches it mid-air.

“Fuckface,” he spits, throwing up two hands and both middle fingers. He walks backward out the door, nudging it open with his bottom.

The bell tinkles cheerfully.

“Moron,” Alastor mutters under his breath. He pockets the cigarettes in the back of his trousers. Rosie beams at him.

“Well. That went better than expected. No arson, very minimal use of force, and best of all, no fatalities!”

The salespeople again find themselves congregating to a corner. She waves at them, ignoring the collective flinch.

“Ta, Nadia! We’ll be back when he finalizes his decision. Cheers for all your help!”

Once outside, he reluctantly gives her his arm.

“I’m never trusting you again,” he grouses.

She pats his forearm, running her gloved hand along the fine hairs.

“Shouldn’t have in the first place, dear.”

* * *

As he tilts his head, the rows of baubles glimmer in scattered dimensions.

He inches closer, inner corvid itching to spirit away the precious stones. As a child, he’d entertain his mother on trips to the jeweler’s, oohing and awing at the sparkling ornaments as she tried on what felt like every piece in the entire store. He remembers admiring shimmery earrings and toying with bangles, but the rings he coveted most of all. He informed his mother once, during their visits, that one day he’d be the proud recipient of a ring, just like how she was. Most of the salespeople chuckled, while a few of them grunted disapprovingly. But his mother, with her wild, unbound hair and keen eyes, clutched his smaller hands in hers and said that she couldn’t wait for that day.

And to show her first.

Angel rides out the wave of nostalgia. The longing has lessened over the years, time dulling the pain to a minor sting.

The love left behind is balm enough.

Cherri peeks over Angel’s shoulder. She buries her chin, digging in the juncture.

“He ain’t a jewelry guy, then?’

“No,” he admits, adding, “but he wears the watch I got him.”

“Hmm. Gonna be harder than we thought, huh?”

Angel nudges his head against hers. She grins. “Kinda,” he says, matching it.

Melodious chimes jingle from above the door and a balmy gust of wind pours inside, swirling around their ankles in a serpentine coil. It would all seem rather romantic was it not for the obnoxious voice that announces, “Okay, bitches. Give me one good reason why I agreed to this.”

Cherri laughs, extricating herself to run over and punch the newcomer in the arm. He dodges the first one, but accepts the second good-naturedly, huffing in amusement.

“What’s good, boss? Why so late?”

“Vermin problem,” Vox replies, wrinkling his nose. “Big fuckin’ ones.”

Angel tosses him a curious look. “What? At the club?”

“Nah.” Vox walks over, hands in his pockets. He peers over the glass.

“But closer than you think,” he mumbles.

Angel shrugs. He adjusts his stance, rocking his arches side to side in his new pumps, breaking them in. Vox notices. He smirks.

“Nice heels, sugar baby.”

Angel lifts his leg in a pin-up fashion behind him for emphasis and cheek. One of the salespeople clears his throat and surreptitiously adjusts his trousers.

“Thanks,” he says, rotating his ankle as he poses. “Guess who was a good boy for daddy.”

Cherri observes the proceedings with amusement. Vox groans while the salesperson excuses himself to the back.

“Kid. I ain’t even had lunch and I’m so goddamn close to upchuckin’.”

Angel brings his foot back down, the loud clack of heel on tile old habit. His fringe flops over upper lashes at the jostling, and Angel puffs out a directed breath upwards in an attempt to lift it away. He’s in dire need of a haircut and re-dye, but he keeps putting it off to spend time with Alastor. He supposes he could bite the bullet and go to his boyfriend’s barber, but he prefers his hairdresser.

Speaking of.

“Hey, Vox. You knew Al the longest. Any idea of what he might like?”

Vox rolls his eyes. “Sure, kid. We definitely had a heart to heart and got to talkin’ about wedding rings at some point in time. Might’ve been before the sleepover and after the spa day. C’mon, ya really think Al’s the type?”

“Oh.” Angel slumps, crestfallen. “Right.”

Cherri fires a mean stink-eye at Vox, but he waves it off. “I didn’t mean the marrying type, kid. Anyone can be, if they try hard or compromise enough, I guess.”

Angel brightens, chewing his bottom lip. “Ya think so?”

“Sure,” he says, honestly. “Anyway, he seems like a simple guy to me. One small stone should suffice. Gotta be flawless, though. Your man’s a prissy little bitch. Diamond can’t be too big since it catches the light and gives away the position. Not that he’d wear it on jobs, but just in case, it’s gotta be easy to clean. Bodily fluids are a bitch to get out and don’t get me started on the fuckin’ smell…”

He rambles on as wary staff observes from the side-lines.

(Unbeknownst to the prospective customers, their battle-weary colleagues from the sister store across town called them earlier in warning.)

“Remember what Nadia said,” one hisses between the clenched teeth of a fake smile. They cautiously eye the clients with their backs to the wall and feet aimed towards the emergency exit.

Angel clings to Vox’s every word, thumbs tapping furiously on his phone. Cherri nudges him with her elbow.

“Told ya he knows his shit,” she crows. He peeks up at the touch, and a shadow passes over her face. She edges closer, placing a warm hand on his arm.

“Babe, I don’t mean to be a downer,” she begins, and he sighs at the familiar disclaimer, “but do ya really think Al will ever agree to get married? He’s made his feelings pretty crystal, from what ya told me. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s that no one should force anyone to do something they ain’t comfortable with.”

Angel understands.

Intimately.

He laughs, lowly. Self-deprecatingly.

“I ain’t expectin’ anything. And I’m sure as hell not goin’ to rope him into somethin’ he doesn’t want.” Angel exhales and combs his fingers through his hair.

“I’m fine with never gettin’ hitched,” he says, “just so long as we stay together.”

 _Like this, forever_ flits through his mind.

Cherri sighs. “Whatever you say, babe.”

Angel shrugs, resting his arms over the display case. With his fingertip, he loops a circle atop the clear, reflective glass.

“Who knows,” he says, tracing the outline of another circle, overlapping the first.

Linking them together.

His finger continues its path high above the glittering rows of artificial stars, an abstract marriage of roiling emotions churning inside him, the most profound of all frothing to the top.

_Hope_

Angel smiles, soft.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vox <3s reality shows  
> Alastor <3s voodoo doll making  
> Rosie <3s wet specimens  
> …Weirdos gonna weird


	15. Fanfic (Alastor/Angel Dust & Implied Husk/Niffty, Rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idiots having secks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armpit kink, characters reading fanfiction, stepfather fetish, and various briefly mentioned kinks.

He buries his nose in Alastor’s armpit.

Alastor, in the midst of reading aloud, yelps during Angel Islington’s monologue to Door, which subsequently ejects them from their immersion. Fat Nuggets, curled up near Alastor’s head, squeals in solidarity. Angel makes a rumbling noise where his nose is nuzzled. Alastor, now having known better, doubts Angel was all that interested in the book to begin with. He peers down at his boyfriend, whose face fits perfectly into the curve.

“Angel, what the hell are you doing?”

“I like the way ya smell.”

He wrinkles his nose as Angel takes another deep whiff. His breath tickles, so Alastor instinctively adjusts his arm downward from where it rests behind his head, but Angel darts out and steadies it in place. Alastor grumbles but relents.

“Doesn’t that reek? I haven’t showered yet,” he remarks, setting down the book atop his stomach. Angel purrs, although it’s muffled by hair.

“Smells like you. The stronger, the better.”

Alastor lifts a brow. “That’s a peculiar fetish.”

“Don’t kink shame me.”

Alastor chuckles as Angel dives in again. This time, he swings his arm down in an arch. He unceremoniously headlocks Angel, who lets out a smothered whine, flails, then smacks his chest in retaliation. He eases up after a few seconds and is greeted by Angel’s pinkened face.

“Asshole,” he gasps. Alastor smirks, taking full advantage of the scant few seconds before he’s hit with a pillow, or tickled into submission.

Angel doesn’t disappoint.

He chooses option two, and they spend the next couple of minutes wrestling like teenagers. The bed creaks under their combined weight and with fits and giggles. Alastor receives a foot to his face, while his elbow connects with Angel’s side. Angel finally pins Alastor down and straddles him with his long, lean legs.

For a while, Alastor just stares at the incomparable sight above him.

The overhead lights halo a crown of messy pink hair. His bare chest heaves. Lightly muscled arms bracket Alastor’s head. He follows the gleam of sweat up his freckled torso to the sensual curve of his throat. Angel swallows, flushing delectably rose under his searching gaze.

Alastor is, once again, smitten.

He’s ready to throw Angel and all caution to the wind when Angel breathlessly suggests:

“Shower, then sex?”

Who’s Alastor to argue with that logic.

* * *

Angel suds up his hair while Alastor kneels in front of him. The soft planes of Angel’s calves are tricky to maneuver, so he meticulously glides the razor, lifting his legs so that he can shave against the grain. He manages to depilate his legs, then moves higher up. Angel sighs as Alastor attends to the area near his groin and above his cock. Usually, this devolves into something much more obscene but since Husk is currently next in line for the shower, they charitably resist.

Mostly.

After, Alastor boxes Angel in with his arms, crowding him against the shower wall. He bites down on Angel’s lower lip before Angel flips around, spreading himself and encouraging Alastor to rut in between his cheeks. Their soapy bodies slide against each other, erasing all friction, and Angel throws his head back, moaning once, guttural.

The door quakes with incessant thuds.

“God fucking dammit! I live here too, ya goddamn pricks!”

Angel slams his forehead against the wall. Alastor follows suit into his shoulder blades.

“Asshole,” Angel hisses. Alastor, deprived of just that, is inclined to agree.

They reluctantly rinse off. Angel sidesteps around an irate Husk, but Alastor meets him head-on with a charming smile.

“Fuck you,” is his roommate’s sole response before he brutishly brushes past him, knocking into his shoulder. Narrowing his eyes, Alastor excuses the slight for the time being and follows Angel into their room.

* * *

He’s toweling his hair when Angel asks, “Babe? What is this?”

He turns, and Angel spins his laptop towards him, the screen bright and set to his email account. The subject line declares, in accusing letters: Fanfiction.

Alastor’s heart kickstarts into immediate cardiac arrest or at least an extremely similar likeness.

Earlier, he’d given Angel the password for his work email to open up a new form of communication in case he needed another way to contact Alastor during work hours. He usually silences his phone during radio sessions to tune out unnecessary distractions, so he thought it prudent that Angel should be privy to that information.

He most assuredly regrets that now.

“Ah,” he says, swallowing around the tight knot in his throat. “Those would be the fan stories my listeners sent. About us.”

Angel hums, clicking the links with abandon. Alastor quells the increasingly tempting desire to flee, and stubbornly keeps rooted to the bed. He has ceased all ministrations on drying his hair, however, and Angel notices.

His eyes are fever bright with curiosity. “Do ya read these?”

“Of course not,” Alastor insists, lying with ease. He burrows his right hand under the blankets, where teeth marks are still embedded from yesterday’s furious masturbatory session in the studio’s unisex bathroom. Millie wisely refrained from commenting as he emerged, hot under the collar and panting.

“Mm,” Angel says in lieu of a response. He scans the page, reading a touch slower as is his nature, and the anticipation drives Alastor half-mad. He reaches out to slam the laptop closed when Angel’s brows arch up. His eyes widen, and he remarks:

“Oh.”

Alastor’s face flames with embarrassment. He wheezes, arm darting out to close the damned thing, when Angel grabs his wrist, effectively stopping him from following through.

“Are these all _porn_?”

“Not at all!” he most certainly does not shriek. “Some are family appropriate stories! Wholesome stories! With no sex whatsoever!”

Angel startles, possibly by the sudden volume. And flailing.

He blinks. “But most of them seem to be-”

“My listeners are _degenerates_ ,” Alastor grouses. “In a couple, we’re not even human.”

He realizes his folly at what he just inadvertently admitted when Angel cracks the widest, most mischievous grin since last Sunday when it led to a blasphemous dalliance in a church.

He’s almost certain they cracked a pew. Which could be why he’s currently being punished.

“So you have read some.”

Alastor really hates his mouth, sometimes. Gift of gab, my foot, he thinks grouchily.

“A few,” he begrudgingly admits. “There’s a new one delivered almost every day. I haven’t read the latest.”

Angel sits up at his confession. He coyly fingers the towel wrapped around his waist, loosening it with teasing, rocking motions of his hips. Alastor is immediately drawn to the smooth expanse of his stomach and lower, focusing on the constellation of freckles below his belly button that drives him wild. The abrupt change from interrogation to consummation registers late, distracted as Alastor is, until Angel asks, short of breath, “Wanna read it out loud to me, babe?”

He undoes the towel. It blooms around his thighs.

“It can be tonight’s story.”

Alastor figuratively pats himself on the back for not reacting too outlandishly at the suggestion. Nevertheless, he leaps towards the computer and opens the file with breakneck speed. Angel fidgets with the top of his sweatpants as he pulls up the document. Alastor angles his hips so that he can play with the drawstrings instead. Somehow, he manages to load the story. Angel turns his attention to the screen and slides his naked body against Alastor’s so that they fit together.

He slots his thigh between Alastor’s, hooking their ankles. The friction is unparalleled, and the warmth, intoxicating.

Alastor begins the story.

“ _Angel is being followed. He’s known this since the lamplight two streets ago. When he looks back, he can’t see anything beyond a cavernous maw of darkness. Up ahead, there’s a flickering light, a beacon that Angel runs towards. His heart pounds as he races to the door, prying it open with shaking hands. As soon as he’s inside, he slams the door shut, and all he hears is his clamorous heart beating against his ribcage. Silence. Then-_ ”

Angel paws his side. “What’s the title, babe?”

Alastor grunts, adjusting his frames as he peers up at the screen. “Monster.”

“Huh. Short and sweet. I like it.”

Alastor shifts, deliberately grazing his cock with his thigh. Angel shakily exhales.

“I’ll bet you do,” Alastor drawls.

“I said, short and sweet, not long and mean.” He beams him with a pillow. Blocking the hit with his forearm, Alastor laughs.

“Shall I continue? Or did you want to carry on with your infantile interruptions?”

Angel bucks his hips, grinding down purposely. Alastor curses, instinctively pushing back. Burgeoning pleasure rocks up his spine, and his nails dig into Angel’s flank.

“ _Please_ continue,” Angel coos, saccharine.

Since he’d asked so nicely.

“ _Then, hoofbeats. ‘Impossible,’ Angel thinks. The door is shut tight. He made it just in time. The hot puff of breath near his neck contradicts that fanciful notion. Angel frantically swings his head, searching out into the darkness, when a low voice says, ‘Let there be light.’ As if on command, the lights flicker on._ ”

Alastor pauses, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. It’s another plastic monstrosity from Angel’s place of work. He tilts it, a cartoon version of his boyfriend blowing him a kiss etched around its side. He’s interrupted with a rude pinch to his bicep.

“Ow,” he enunciates, drawing out the vowel. Angel glares, pointing at the screen.

“Keep readin’, asshole. I wanna know what followed me.”

“Nothing good, if one were to follow trends.” Another sharp pinch.

“Will you- _The beast before him is monstrous and familiar. Angel breathes a sigh of relief, but apprehension still bubbles in his stomach. It’s followed, as usual, by the warm ripple of arousal. The demon buck mounts him, sniffing up his legs, and farther up his skirt where his secret lies between his thighs_.” Alastor stops. He stares at the screen, pushing his frames further up his nose.

“Secret? What secret?”

Angel groans, abruptly halting his rutting. His cock drools wetly, a dark spot blooming on Alastor’s sweats. “Keep fuckin’ readin’, and we’ll find out,” he snaps.

As apology, Alastor reaches down and begins stroking Angel’s cock. It’s heavy in his hand and unbearably warm. His cock thickens in near Pavlovian response.

“ _Suddenly, the demon transforms. In the buck’s place, his stepfather, Alastor_ ”-“Oh, here I am”-“ _stands, watching him with undisguised lust. There’s no denying it any longer, for both of them. Angel squeezes his thighs together, his cock twitching with arousal, while the slick from his cunt sops through his lace panties_.” Alastor pauses.

He squints.

“You have a vagina,” he states. “ _And_ a penis. How is that possible?”

Angel wrenches his head back into the pillow. “Alastor. Are ya fuckin’ serious? Wait.” He jerks his head forward again, glaring suspiciously. “Why ain’t ya comment on the stepdad part?”

 _Merde_ , Alastor thinks. In retribution, he speeds up his strokes, but Angel seizes his arm, freezing him in place.

“Al,” he warns.

Alastor sighs. “It may or may not be a second installment to the first one. Or third. I can’t remember. What I do recall is that it’s been established that I’m your stepfather, but also a…demonic deer _._ Oh, don’t look at me like that. My listeners are to blame. They seem to have collectively decided on that. How they derived that from the ‘Radio Demon’ moniker, I’ll never guess.”

He frowns. “Still, that was the quickest impetus for sex that I’ve read thus far. Who exactly _is_ writing this?”

“Babe. Our whole relationship started with sex, remember? Ya fucked me in the middle of lockdown.”

“There were grounds for that,” Alastor insists, waving his hand in a shooing motion. Insolent as always, Angel dips forward and sinks his teeth into his vulnerable fingers. Alastor retaliates by grinding his trapped thigh onto Angel’s cock. He whines sweetly, parting his delectable lips and finally releasing Alastor’s poor fingers.

“Brat. Continue or?”

Angel palms Alastor through the threadbare sweats, tugging at the fabric so that it outlines the heavy shape of his cock. His breath hitches in his throat, the sensation of cotton engulfing his cock incomparably obscene and pleasurable.

“Sure,” Angel breathes. “Ya gonna fuck my pussy, Al?” he whispers coyly, freckled thighs falling open.

Alastor bites his lip to keep from moaning and presses the heel of his hand over Angel’s on his hardening cock, precum smearing his inner thigh. Slightly deterred, he continues, stumbling over his words.

His fictional self ravishes Angel’s character, which reduces fictional Angel to a begging mess. There are a great many filthy words exchanged, which is not far from the realm of possibility or real life in general, but the next sentence catches him off guard.

He narrows his eyes accusingly at the screen. “Spit? We’re using _spit_ for lubricant?”

Angel slaps his hands down on the comforter, whining. “Oh my _god_ , Al! It’s fiction! Fuck’s sake!”

He claws at the downy fabric, obscenely squirming, all loose hips and kittenish moans. Alastor adjusts his glasses, then his sweatpants.

“Right,” comes his unsteady voice. He clears his throat, valiantly suspending his disbelief.

“ _‘Fuck my pussy,’ Angel begs. He spreads those pink, glistening folds wide open with his fingers, presenting his wet cunt to his stepfather. Alastor’s cock twitches at the sight of his stepson’s submission; his cunt ripe and ready for his stepfather’s ruthless deflowering_.”

Alastor blinks.

Twice.

Flabbergasted doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels.

Short-circuiting is perhaps more apt.

As remedy for that ridiculous passage, Angel’s deft fingers skate over his clothed cock, coaxing him to stiffness even as he glares at the screen.

“Babe, I swear to God, if ya don’t finish readin’, I’m never suckin’ off little Alastor ever again.”

“I’m going to-did you just call my penis ‘ _little Alastor_ ’?”

“Nope,” Angel fibs, poorly. He tries to distract him by playing with his cock again, squeezing the tip the way he knows Alastor enjoys. To his immense irritation, it works. He shudders, precum beading at the slit. Angel smirks as Alastor rocks his hips in tandem with the featherlight touches. Out of principle, Alastor refuses to abide by that.

Little Alastor, indeed.

He flips Angel, hissing mockingly, “On your stomach, dear. Easier to read while _the buck_ mounts you.”

Angel puts up the weakest fight and stills as Alastor ruts into his backside. His cock slips between the cheeks as Alastor spreads them, digging his nails into the supple flesh. His tip presses against Angel’s puckered entrance, precum smearing around the softened rim. It’s an animalistic action to mark his territory, and Alastor can’t help but to feed the beast. His forehead falls between Angel’s shoulder blades. He bites down gently, teasing the skin with teeth.

It takes all his strength to resist sinking his canines into Angel; to not brand him so that all his regulars are aware of exactly who he belongs to. The dull roar of tinnient static rushes in his ears, the familiar beastly possessiveness overriding all sensibility.

Just imagine it as a regular show, Alastor inwardly chants, coming back to himself. A typical show, albeit with the guest clenched and writhing beneath him.

It briefly works, and the bloodlust diverts back to his cock.

Sucking in a deep breath, he continues with the narration.

In his professional radio announcer voice. A deeper, sonorous version of it.

Angel writhes at the sudden switch, and god help him, Alastor loves it. He adores eliciting those high pitched moans and coaxing his mercurial brat into submission, piece by shivering piece. He’s never been addicted to anything so intoxicating in his life; not even power. Being buried inside Angel is the closest Alastor will ever get to heaven, and he intends to abuse the privilege.

If not the story, the situation itself calls for a better class of lubricant, so Alastor uncaps the bottle Angel wordlessly hands to him. He slicks up his fingers, then eases the tip into Angel, who moans at the intrusion.

Alastor loosened Angel earlier in the shower. That, with the combination of lube and precum, makes the glide sinfully easier. Besides, Alastor moves slowly, _deliberately_.

His boyfriend seems to catch on.

Snarling, Angel reaches around, grips his wrist, and unceremoniously shoves the rest of it inside him.

He slides down to the knuckle.

The tendrils bridling Alastor’s control start to fray.

“Impudent brat,” he hisses, in between the narration. He forces two more fingers inside the twitching hole since his disobedient lover seems impatient for it. The unprecedented penetration punches out gasps from Angel’s throat. He whines and grinds into the comforter. Alastor’s voice dips dangerously lower.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers, sweetheart.”

“That part of the story?” Angel asks, breathless.

“Darling,” Alastor coos. He twists his wrist, screwing his fingers deeper inside.

“This is all me.”

The next few sentences are punctuated by Angel’s breathy mewls and the filthy squelching of his wet hole around Alastor’s fingers. He teasingly skirts around Angel’s prostate when he finds it, causing him to beg prettily, muffled by the sheets.

“Ah, perfect timing. _Angel begs Alastor to fuck him, clit sensitive from his stepfather’s relentless teasing. He’s dripping wet from both slits, thighs trembling. Alastor takes pity on him, and lines his cock up against Angel’s slippery folds_.”

Alastor sighs dramatically. “When in Rome.”

He pulls out his fingers from the slick hole, ignoring Angel’s plaintive whine, to fully undress. He kicks the sweatpants off to the side, crawling between Angel’s legs. He nudges his cock in between plush cheeks, then slowly pushes in.

It _sucks_ him in.

The heat and the slickness from earlier creates a spine-tingling suction around his cock, and immediately Alastor loses control. He sets a brutal pace, fucking into Angel while still retaining some semblance of sense to recite the rest of the story. He manages to narrate a good portion of it, given the circumstances but pauses again at:

“I’m sorry- _tentacles_? I have tentacles?”

“Fuck yeah, ya do!”

“Like an octopus?”

“Al. _Please_. I’m beggin’ ya. Shut the hell up. And keep readin’.”

Alastor grumbles at the contradictory statements, but then his vision goes staticky. Angel reaches back and grabs his hip, shoving backward in one fluid motion. Alastor moans as Angel squeezes relentlessly as he slides to the base. He grunts as he thrusts into that tight, wet heat, ready to plug him up and breed him full of come, impregnate him full of brats-

Shit.

Alastor’s eyes snap open. Angel yanks his hair, dragging his head down to his nape and reacting beautifully to the filthy words. Alastor colors as he realizes that he’s spoken out loud.

“Did I just…” he stammers between harsh pants. Angel, just getting over the shock, relaxes as a languid smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah, ya did,” he purrs, tilting his face towards Alastor’s.

Eyes pinched shut, Alastor extricates his cock from the tight grip, and flips him back over, heedless of the protests. He lines up again, meeting Angel’s gaze through lidded eyes, and thrusts deep back inside.

It’s too warm and slick and tight and Alastor can’t stem the tide of libidinous want that washes over him. His face scrunches in pleasure as he adjusts to the vice choke of Angel’s hole. He starts as he feels a hand rest on his cheek, and redirects his attention to Angel’s flushed face.

He’s stunning, all freckles and cheekbones, and those mismatched eyes unfocused in rapture.

Deer demon, he recalls with bright clarity. With Angel trembling under him like a fawn, he can almost understand the appeal.

Just another kink to add to his growing list.

“That’s it, kitten,” he growls. “Just look at you. Made perfectly for _me_.”

He thrusts harder and faster, pulling ragged breaths from Angel’s throat. His reddened, puffy rim catches just beneath his cockhead, so Alastor surges forward and makes good on his promise.

At least, part of it.

He dips his head, brushing his lips over Angel’s earlobe. He parts his mouth, voice gravelly with lust.

“ _Angel cries out as Alastor assaults the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside him. Suddenly, he reaches the apex of blinding pleasure, tightening all around Alastor’s cock. He arches and spills just as Alastor comes with a shout, pulsing inside him.”_

It’s not simultaneous like in the story, but it’s dead close.

Angel stutters his name, spine arching in a curved bow as Alastor slithers his hand down his stomach, finally loosely grasping his cock. Two pumps and a thumb swiping his slit, and Angel’s lost. Angel’s thighs flex as he spurts all over Alastor’s hand and his stomach. He constricts as he shudders, and Alastor fucks him through his orgasm, his own ripping from his body. He thrusts unevenly but brutally as Angel milks him, every shove a shot of seed painting Angel on the inside.

Lower lip cinched between his teeth, Angel’s shoulder blades leave the bed only to loop his arms around Alastor’s neck, pulling him down.

“Yours,” Angel promises, and the word lingers in the space between them.

Just like all the others.

* * *

He flops down next to Alastor, blissed-out, limbs loose, and glistening with a sheen of sweat. Alastor tuts before darting his tongue out and licking him, the taste of salt intermingling with Angel’s distinct flavor.

“Who’s the pervert now, bitey?”

Alastor huffs into his skin. “Touché.”

Angel stretches, lifting his arms above his head. “God, babe. That was phenomenal. You’re a fuckin’ natural at this. People will _pay_ for that shit.”

Plucking off his glasses, Alastor flashes him a crooked smile.

Here goes nothing.

“Funny you should say that. I, er, should’ve mentioned this earlier, but apparently, Blitzo had convened an impromptu meeting with that distasteful coward you call a manager. They, along with Lucifer, struck a bargain of sorts.”

Alastor is keenly aware that he’s rambling now.

“A deal? What kinda deal?”

Alastor groans, eternally put-out. “Let’s just say that private shows can now be supplemented by my voice rather than to music-should the client request it-as backdrop to your…solo attentions.”

Angel blinks. “I’m goin’ to be fuckin’ myself to your voice?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“That’s hot as hell.”

“Yes, I fought tooth and- _what_?”

“Fuck babe, I’m goin’ to be horny every night. What if I come too soon? At work? What if I come too many times and my fuckin’ dick breaks off?”

“Eloquent, dear,” Alastor drawls, shielding his face with a pillow. “Goodnight.”

Angel sharply pinches his side.

“Hey! We ain’t finished, asshole!”

The pillow resoundingly disagrees.

* * *

“Husky?”

“No.”

“What do you think about mpreg?”

He shoots up, head shrouded by the mess of blankets. A face-sized daffodil looks over at Niffty, who spins, crossed-legged on his gaming chair.

“Guys do not get pregnant. It’s fucking science,” he growls, tearing off the patterned blanket with vehemence.

“This is fanfiction, babe. Anything is possible!” She sticks out her tongue. “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy.”

“I’m not a negative-it’s fucking biologically impossible!”

“Not if we give him dual genitalia.”

“Can you just…” At her wobbling lip, Husk folds, slumping. “Fine.”

He pokes at the cheerful bouquet decorating the throw pillow, feeling decidedly the opposite. “Go down the list.”

Niffty squeals, skidding to a stop with her bare foot. “Thanks, Husky! Love you!”

He blushes, but relies on his unwelcoming energy and resting grouch face to hide it. If he’s unsuccessful, Niffty doesn’t show it. Her back faces towards him as she runs through the list.

“Overstimulation?”

“Last week.”

“Consensual non-consent?”

“From the sound of it, yesterday.”

“Darn it. Breathplay? Fisting? Collaring?”

Husk puts three fingers up, lowering one after each point. “One: look at his neck. Two: unfortunately yes, and three: harnesses and leashes too.” He settles back into the mattress, arms folded behind his head. “Face it, those assholes are kinky as shit. Good luck finding something they didn’t do.”

She slouches, head lolling backward. The chair creaks with her constant shifting. It used to drive Husk insane, but he’s gotten used to her tics over the years. He drifts off to the clicking of keys. She taps each one with clear-cut deliberation.

A minute or half an hour later, Niffty prods her drowsy boyfriend with her toe.

“Husk, what’s another name for ‘engorged’?”

He hisses in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Alastor is reading Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> 2\. This fic is intended to be meta; I'm not poking fun at anyone besides myself.
> 
> 3\. Niffty references the movie, "10 Things I Hate About You". Ms. Perky will live on in infamy.


	16. Dress (Alastor/Angel Dust + Rosie, Rated E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Crossdressing, mommy kink, spanking, creampie, public sex, derogatory language (during sex) + dirty talk, Top Alastor, Bottom Angel Dust

When they set up the barbecue, it’s not without a whole slew of bitching and complaining on both their parts. Alastor rarely shouts in anger, but he teeters on the brink a few times, reeling in his temper by a hair. Husk has no such compunctions and brandishes the tongs at him, snapping them as he belabors his point. Niffty, who is usually present to either fan the flames or extinguish them, is away visiting her parents. As such, Angel is left with his hands full of divas.

“Good god, man, who taught you how to build a fire? My grandmother could do it in less time. With arthritis and a bad hip.”

“Then tell your fucking grandma to come here and do it if she’s the goddamn expert!”

“She’s dead, and rightfully so. She could power the house with how fast she’s spinning in her grave.”

“Whatever. Hand me the hot sauce while we wait for these babies to cook. I need something to flavor your gumbo later.”

Angel winces. If there is one thing anyone should not do around his homicidal boyfriend, it is to insult his cooking. Them’s fighting words, and Angel has seen the man draw blood over it. Alastor is close enough to a conniption-or a murder-that he decides to step in.

Since their guest can’t be bothered.

“Shoo,” she demands, waving her hand dismissively at Fat Nuggets who sniffs her shoes. Angel doesn’t know how she manages to walk in those heels without sinking into their lawn. He decides it’s either voodoo or those clear plastic circles that attach to the bottom of the spike. Either way, he endeavors to find out later.

He ambushes Alastor from the back, rubbing his face on his nape.

“Babe,” he whines, shamelessly rutting up against him. “I’m thirsty. Can ya bring me a beer?”

Alastor stands his ground for a long moment before relaxing into his grip. He concedes.

“Of course, darling.” He twists around, placing a swift kiss on his forehead. “Make sure this imbecile doesn’t burn our food.”

You’re welcome, he mouths at Husk as Alastor heads inside. He passes by their guest, pointedly ignoring her until she bypasses Nuggets and stands squarely in front of him. She lifts her glass to his face, brushing the tip of his nose.

“Be a dear, love, and top us up.”

He snatches the glass from her, grumbling as she smiles, shark-like.

“Thank you, Alastor,” she coos. “ _Much_ obliged.”

“My absolute _pleasure_ , Rosie,” he grits out.

She chortles as he stomps away. It’s short-lived, however, when Fat Nuggets decides that she is his fifth favorite person now, and curls up near her foot.

Rosie sighs. “These are Louboutins, you know.”

He happily snorts in acknowledgment.

* * *

Rosie chuckles, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

Husk retired earlier, citing reasons pertaining to alcoholism and his nightly phone call to Niffty. Even the bonfire took note, winding down with the rest of the evening. The embers burn lowly as the wood turns to coal. Angel’s new jeweled bracelet twinkles in the firelight. Rosie hums in admiration.

“Oh, dear,” she says, plucking the glass gingerly at the stem. “That reminds me of that job we did a few years back. Do you remember New York, Alastor? Goodness, you and Vox. I still haven’t recovered from that debacle, and don’t recall anyone else who could pull off those looks.”

“Rosie,” Alastor warns, a growl to his voice. Angel surreptitiously adjusts his shorts. She ignores him, sipping her red.

“Angel, did anyone ever tell you how fetching your paramour is in drag?”

Angel hacks, practically coughing up a lung. He wheezes at the barrage of new and startling information while pounding his chest as Rosie peers over in disdain. Alastor massages his shoulders, which does jack shit to dispel his shock.

“Good heavens, dear. Are you all right?” Rosie asks, not sounding the least interested in the answer. Alastor rubs his forehead with a free hand, the other clutching the wine glass with white knuckles.

“Al, ya…” Angel manages between wheezes. “Ya did drag?”

“My dear, it was undercover and entirely necessary.”

Rosie sloshes her glass, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised.

“Mmm. That I can agree with. Although, I do recall you and Vox capering about after in costume throughout various pubs attempting to pull.” She leans closer to Angel, and says, not quite _sotto voce_ , “They had an asinine contest as to who wore it better.”

At Alastor’s polite cough, she states, “I held my peace then, and I hold it now.” She holds out her glass, and Alastor pours, reluctantly.

“You? An impartial judge? Please.” He scoffs. “You know I was miles more aesthetically pleasing than that buffoon.”

“Yes, well, you may have the cheekbones, darling, but Vox has the jawline. Your waist tapers in nicely, but his slimmer ankles fit the heels better.”

“Larger ankles are needed to wear those monstrosities! For _balance_!”

“Not if the straps can’t fit around them.”

“There are shoes with adjustable straps,” he grits out. He looks to Angel for support, or something. “Dear?”

Unfortunately for him, Angel’s brain has stopped functioning at this juncture, and the blood flow has redirected to his cock. A small, conscious part of him relays the message to slowly bob his head up and down. Seemingly satisfied, Alastor triumphantly grins.

“See? I win that round.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” she says, rolling her eyes. She sips her wine, the rim hiding her smirk.

“You are intolerable at the worst of times,” Alastor declares, slouching back in his chair. He drapes his ankle over his thigh, circling it in time with his glass. Angel watches, almost cross-eyed at all the kinks his boyfriend is currently crossing off in his mental checklist. To distract himself, he frantically texts the other culprit. He receives the messages mere seconds after sending his.

**Al’s better at flirting than me**

**But I’m prettier so he needs all the help he can get**

**He said he won**

**Fuck him he only got the edge because those pervs preferred red lipstick duck that clown looking motherfucker**

**REAL gentlemen prefer coral**

**Vox**

**Vox what the fuck**

He misses the catty barbs traded between the two friends, while mildly registering Alastor arguing his case.

“He only received that fellow’s number because he was so touchy, and I refuse to grope strangers.”

“Mmm. Strange. That’s not what I heard. Isn’t that right, Angel? Seems he made an exception for you.”

“Don’t answer that, dear. And you know that it’s true. That man can be such a shameless tart when he puts his meager mind to it.” He swallows a generous sip of wine. “Bait’s all there, too bad the fish refuse to bite,” he snipes.

Angel’s phone lights up again.

 **What’s he saying about me**

His fingers swiftly tap out a response.

**That ur slutty and super handsy**

**And that’s cheating**

**Tell him to go duck himself**

***FUCK**

**And stop being such a ducking sore loser**

**GODDAMIT**

**Pics?**

“Dear, is our conversation boring you? I can ask Rosie to switch topics to liven things up.”

Angel jolts. He peers up from his phone, the backlight illuminating his guilty face.

“Yes, Angel. Care to share with the rest of the class?” Rosie dryly asks, indicating with a haughty smile that she suspects who he’s corresponding with. Just to be contrarian, he fires back, “None of ya business” and foolishly thinks that’s the end of that.

He is, as always, dead wrong.

Alastor reaches out his hand, palm face-up and beckoning. “Give it here, please. Let’s see what that dunce has to say.”

Reluctantly, Angel passes it to him. Although he’s keyed in Alastor’s fingerprint to his phone, his boyfriend rarely impedes Angel’s privacy. Glaringly aware of his past with Valentino, Alastor does his best to ask permission, even when Angel prefers him not to. Those cases usually pertain to sexual situations where he can’t be bothered to screech out “Green” every time Alastor forgets not to coddle him with kid gloves.

Alastor reads the texts with Rosie’s chin perched on his shoulder. Angel smothers the stab of jealousy that courses through him at the sight. He has reassured him that Rosie is nothing more than his best friend, but Angel’s heard _that_ before. Still, he trusts Alastor a helluva lot more than Valentino, so he holds his peace and bites his tongue. Alastor’s fingers fly across his phone as he taps out his response to Angel’s boss.

It’s a bit concerning, how long it’s taking him, but the recipient _is_ Vox. Alastor would happily choreograph a song and dance the minute that man keels over dead. It’s not hyperbole, either; Angel caught him red-handed, rehearsing the damned thing. Original score clenched in his hand and all.

He sighs. Rosie shoots him an amused look. Maintaining eye contact, she runs her gloved hands up his boyfriend’s side, who accepts the touches with little more than a soft hum. Angel’s blood pressure skyrockets at the sight and her gall. He snarls at the same time Alastor looks up smugly, handing him back the phone. Torn between biting off Rosie’s head and reading whatever mess Alastor decided to send his boss, he chooses the latter.

But jots down a mental reminder regarding the former.

 **It was a deep maroon, not red, you buffoon.**

**And I believe it was YOU who was the loser, not so sorry to say.**

**Tsk, tsk. Jealousy is most unbecoming, although you’re probably accustomed to that by now.**

**To wit: Jealousy AND being unbecoming**

An ellipse appears.

Then, the rebuttal:

**DUCK YOU YOU ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER**

**FUCK* FUCK FUCK DUCK**

**No one gives a flying fuck about your goddamn lipstick color**

**Suck my dick you goddamn**

**Shit sorry my cat hit my phone hang on**

**…**

Angel rolls his eyes. He places his phone, face down, atop the table. Hopefully, the messages will dwindle by the time their guest leaves.

Rosie grins like the cat who caught the canary, and of course, she’s done it on purpose. Alastor’s friends are all batshit, from the lady smirking across him to the other one blowing up his phone. He’s just about to snap at her and reclaim his rightful spot near his boyfriend when Alastor stands up to clear the plates.

“Shall I bring out another bottle?” he asks, already walking away.

“Yeah, babe,” Angel growls. “And maybe our handcuffs too, just to keep people’s hands to them fuckin’ selves.”

“I’d love another glass,” Rosie chirps, lifting it as she finally sits down on her own chair. She swirls the remains of it before focusing her attention on Angel.

“Yet another jealous type,” she drawls. “How predictable.”

“Fuck off, lady. Just ‘cuz you’re his best friend, don’t mean ya can feel him up like that, ‘specially not in front of me.”

“Don’t be gauche, dear. It’s not in my repertoire.” Her grin widens, a bitchy curl to the corners. “And don’t be mistaken. Alastor _is_ handsome. But if I wanted him, he wouldn’t be here idly frolicking away his days with you. Rest assured.”

Angel snarls, temper flaring. She waves him off like swatting at a fly, or another minor nuisance. Rosie murmurs something offhandedly that sounds like, “Much too high maintenance, the lot of them” but the wind sweeps it away. She spares him another savvy glance.

“Now that that’s cleared up. Any burning questions for me?”

Angel grits his teeth, but his curiosity overrides both jealousy and irritation. He needs answers, and he needs them, _stat_.

“So, Al? In a dress?”

“Is that so surprising, dear? Anyone in our field preaches the motto, ‘By any means necessary.’ And it bears repeating. It’s a rather dog eat dog world out there, I’m afraid.” A nasty smirk graces her features. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you, dear?”

Angel swallows. He’s still unsure if they know about him being Henry’s son, but he figures that if anyone was privy to that information, it would be Rosie. Alastor trusts her, which says something, but Angel isn’t sure if he agrees. He’d rather throw her, at this point.

Or however that saying goes.

“Secrets, secrets,” she purrs. “Speaking of, he hasn’t told you everything, has he? About his past? His family? His mother?”

Angel blanches at the last mention. He has asked Alastor about his family, but he’s tight-lipped when it comes to his mother unless the anecdotes are set firmly in the past. He recounts old stories about his parents well enough, so the exclusion of her recent whereabouts is highly suspicious.

He regroups, trying to save some face. “Lady, we have our whole lives to find out shit about each other. There ain’t no time limit.”

She lifts a brow. “That’s awfully trusting of you.”

It is.

And why not? He loves Alastor, and he _does_ trust him.

With his life.

“Charming,” she drawls. “Moving on. Here’s my version of the shovel talk, dear. I’ll be brief, as he’s expected soon: hurt him and you’ll eat through a feeding tube for the rest of your miserable life. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I’m sure you get the gist.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. Angel refuses to cower.

“I don’t take kindly to threats, lady.”

She flashes him a mischievous grin. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Alastor’s the same way. It seems he’s found a feisty companion in you. You’re a touch more growly and less theatrical, but here we are.”

She leans back, fingering the stem of her glass. “Vox has wider hips. If you ask me, he wore it better. The dress, that is. Alastor has such narrow hips. And broad shoulders.” She pauses, bringing the glass up to her red lips. “But his face is more pleasing, I’ll give him that. Don’t tell him this, lest the man’s head swells even more. I’m supposed to remain impartial.”

Angel blinks. He thought he would be more accustomed to whiplash, especially in this relationship, but he was wrong.

“Sorry about the wait. Husker, the archetypal hoarder, hid the good bottles in his room. It might not be up to ideal temperature, but it’s better than swill.”

Alastor uncorks the bottle, generously pours them all a glass, then places it back into the ice bucket he brought with him. He sits down, draping an arm around Angel’s chair.

“What are we all discussing, now?”

“How much we adore you.”

He laughs. “I never took you for a liar, Rosie.”

“My dear, I _do_ adore you, but not with every fiber of my being. You think tea is meant to be iced and drowned in copious amounts of sugar.”

“Millie agrees with me.”

“Then she lacks taste as well.”

Their teasing banter continues into the night. Gradually, the jealousy dwindles as the evening stretches on, and Angel begins to appreciate the finer points of Rosie’s razor-sharp wit. Light jabs and japes are bandied about as they finish their bottle of wine. He watches Alastor’s animated face as she regales Angel with funny little anecdotes about his boyfriend. Alastor seems completely at ease, as much as he likes to gripe about his friend. The way his face lights up is mesmerizing. Angel almost loses himself, but then Alastor’s leg tangles with his under the table. He reaches over and encircles Angel’s wrist. The gesture isn’t lost on Rosie. Her eyes twinkle with something akin to approval.

The conversation begins anew, and in the growing hours of the night, Alastor’s thumb is warm and steady against his pulse.

* * *

They’ve just finished filming Angel’s new webcam show when he tentatively broaches the subject.

“Hey, babe?” he asks as Alastor manhandles him into position.

“Legs up, dear.” Angel complies as the camera clicks. Alastor glances down at the viewfinder. He frowns. “What is it?”

“I was wonderin’…an’ this may be stupid, but did you and Rosie ever?”

“Spread your-yes, thank you. Did Rosie and I ever what?”

Angel chews his lip. He stares at the ceiling for strength or the very least, courage, and meekly says, “Bump uglies? Ya know, knock boots?” At Alastor’s dumbfounded expression, he changes tactics, and bluntly asks, “Did ya fuck Rosie?”

“Good heavens, no!” He grimaces, visibly recoiling. “Whatever gave you that ghastly idea?”

Angel worries at his lip, studiously avoiding eye contact. “I dunno. The other night, maybe. Ya seemed so touchy-feely with her.”

Alastor scoffs. “Darling, I’ve known Rosie for a very long time. We’ve been friends and close associates for years. I, unlike _some_ unsavory fellows you might know, do not mix friendship and sex”-“I wasn’t considered your friend?” Angel sasses while Alastor ignores him-“or work and intimacy, for that matter.”

“Oh.” Angel hums. His bottom lip stings. The mattress dips next to him as Alastor joins him in bed. He rests the camera above their heads on the pillows before nudging Angel’s cheek with his nose.

“Does that bother you? Her touching me?”

“Sorta. I mean, I don’t mind, but sometimes it’s too much.”

He snorts, blowing Angel’s hair across his face. “She _is_ a habitual line crosser.”

Angel hurriedly elaborates, “It ain’t you, most of the time, but it’s just…I don’t have the best experience with it.” He closes his eyes. He knows Alastor hates hearing the mere mention of his ex-boyfriend’s name, but this is important. “Val used to rub it my face, all the time. It’s kinda a touchy subject for me.” He forces out a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze. “Maybe it’s me, babe. Maybe I’m too sensitive.”

As expected, there’s a moment of silence. But then Angel feels fingertips dance along his collarbone. They follow its angled curve, dipping into the v-shaped depression right above his sternum. His breath ghosts near his jawline.

“I’ll have a chat with Rosie. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

Angel’s eyes shoot open. He starts, flipping to his side. “What? Babe, you don’t have to! I was probably just bein’ sensitive.”

“Nonsense,” he replies, wagging his finger. “Those are relationship boundaries, dear. I’ve been reading that book you gifted me, and it’s fascinating! Why, if the roles were reversed, and it was Husker whose hands were all over you, I’d cut them off,” he says cheerily.

Angel blinks slowly.

Alastor tilts his head. “Too much?”

“A little.”

“I’ll dial it back. The crux of the matter is, you’re entitled to your feelings and I should be receptive to modifying my behavior, or Rosie’s if it’s a point of contention.”

Angel smiles, trying in vain to suppress the warmth spilling from his chest. He cheeses it up, pressing his hands to his heart.

“Aw, babe!” he coos. “You’ve been readin’ the book? ‘Romantic Relationships For Dumbasses’?”

The book was on sale the last time they went to the mall, and Angel thought it made a terrific gag gift for his boyfriend. What he failed to predict was how seriously Alastor would take the advice.

“The very same! Incidentally, I’m on Chapter Six: ‘Love Languages and How to Interpret Them, You Insensitive Ass’.”

He beams, and Angel’s stomach flips. He looks so proud of himself, and Angel melts. He verbalizes his appreciation before reverting to physical praise, driving home the point of how buoyant and ecstatic it makes him.

Keeping with the spirit, Alastor also drives _his_ point home.

* * *

“What’s the look for, dear?”

Angel inwardly curses. Alastor always catches him out, especially when he’s trying to be coy. He playfully mocks Angel for being so terrible at masking his feelings, and although Angel argues on principle, he begrudgingly admits that it is true. He sighs.

“This is gonna sound weird, so promise ya won’t freak out.”

“Well, when you preface it like that.”

“C’mon, Al,” he whines. “Promise?”

Alastor inhales sharply through his nostrils. “Fine. I promise.”

“I want ya to fuck me in a skirt.”

To Angel’s pleasant surprise, he doesn’t bat an eye. “You? Or?”

“I want _you_ to wear it.”

A pause. “This has everything to do with the other night, doesn’t it?”

“Yep.”

He curses, burying his face in the blankets. “I hate that woman, I do.”

“No, ya don’t.” Angel twirls the tuft of hair that pokes out from the pile. “An’ ya don’t have to do it if ya ain’t comfortable. It’s just a kink I got. I love ya just the same, drag or no drag.”

“You’d better,” grumbles the muffled voice. His head pops up from beneath the sheets. “Do I have to gussy up?”

Angel squeals, wrapping his arms around his cocooned body. He spoons him and nuzzles into his shoulder.

“Does this mean you’ll do it?”

He grouses again for good measure, before rearing up and nipping at Angel’s jaw.

“Mm. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I’ll make it up to ya, I promise.”

Alastor shuts his eyes, burrowing back into the blankets, and drags Angel with him. “I’m sure you will.”

* * *

It’s Saturday night, and Angel’s thighs quake around Alastor’s head.

His tongue circles wetly around the rim, flicking inside as he relaxes. It’s absolute heaven as he licks Angel open, twisting his tongue as he probes deeper. His lips smack against Angel’s flexing hole as Angel stifles his moans in his palm.

The door shakes as someone cusses outside.

“Fuck you!” Angel yells, slamming his fist back in response. “Use another stall!”

“I’m afraid this one’s occupied,” purrs Alastor. The jiggling stops as the person squeaks, rubber soles skidding across the tiles. Heavy bass blares into the room as the door swings open. The last of the music diminishes as it thuds shut.

“This will have to be quick, sweetheart. Apologies.”

Alastor brings himself up to his full height, and then some. He’s not as graceful as Angel, but he balances well enough on those heels. Three inches seem to be the limit; thank god for stripper shoes. Their feet aren’t small by any means, and only certain brands will accommodate larger shoe sizes. Thankfully, Angel’s well versed by now. He gives Alastor an appreciative once-over.

Even in this dim lighting, he paints a pretty picture. The sultry look suits him, and the dark plum lipstick compliments his skin tone. It’s smeared due to his intimate attentions, but the effect is still quite fetching. Angel sparingly contoured, since Alastor’s cheekbones hardly required any more attention. He focused on softening his jawline instead, but makeup only can do so much. As for the rest, the dress is modest enough.

If one ignores the heavy tenting lifting the front of it.

He hefts up Angel’s leg, grunting at the nearly impossible position. Angel squirms, bearing down as the thickness breaches him. Alastor’s worn a condom this time, even though he prefers to be fucked without, but-

“Babe, where are the panties?”

“ _Little Alastor_ ,” he snidely says, “kept popping out. I decided to go commando.”

Angel bites the bottom of his lip to keep from moaning. “Oh, Al,” he breathes. “That’s way hotter than the silk.”

“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

He lines up, the inflated tip kissing Angel’s hole, and pushes in.

“Oh fuck,” Angel hisses through teeth. The first glide and stretch is _heaven_. Alastor shifts his hips to feed him more of his cock with intoxicating fullness. The near burn prompts precum to pearl in his slit, dampening his dress.

Once Alastor is fully seated, Angel moans. His pleas bubble up from his throat to parted lips as Alastor savagely begins fucking him. He clenches around the brutal stretch as the fat length of it grazes his prostate.

When Angel’s in one of his bratty moods, he demands Alastor to eat his come out of Angel when he’s finished. Frustratingly, Alastor obeys, licking out every last glob from Angel’s ass with ravenous swipes of his tongue. There is usually minimal pushback from him even as Angel becomes more demanding. So he itches something fierce for Alastor to punish him like the masochistic little boy he can very damn well be.

At least, that’s the explanation as to what leaves his lips.

“Mommy,” he gasps.

Alastor’s hips stutter erratically once, and dueling flashes of pride and shame course through Angel. For once, Alastor seems to be at a loss for words.

And Angel teems with them.

“I-I got more issues than a magazine stand,” he says.

“So I gathered,” Alastor drawls. There’s a pregnant pause, and then, “Male or female?”

Angel chews his lip to keep from moaning, but the desperate clench around Alastor’s cock is a dead giveaway.

“Girl,” he whispers, and it’s all over.

Alastor grabs fistfuls of his ass and pounds into him. The drag of his thick cock is enough for Angel to cry out. The pleasure slowly mounts and his dick fattens in his panties, the upwards stroke of his hand squeezing the bulky length of it through his dress. Angel feels filthy. The fabric clings to his thighs as Alastor thrusts in between them.

“Darling,” he hisses before the angle forces him to slip out. Alastor curses. He spins Angel towards the toilet seat, which leaves Angel scrabbling for balance, and adjusts the position to his liking. He flips the hem of the dress and hitches it around his waist. Alastor roughly manhandles him over the seat, and a fit of pique strikes Angel.

Feeling especially bratty, he bites out, “I wouldn’t mind a glory hole in here.” He’s of a mind to push all of Alastor’s buttons, knowing that the consequence might be severe.

If he’s lucky.

“Someone else could fuck my mouth while ya fuck my hole, mommy,” he purrs, goading him on. He shakes his ass for emphasis. “I don’t mind sharin’. Gettin’ filled up at the same time.”

The hands tighten around his hips. Nails dig into his skin, and a warm weight shrouds his back. He muffles his moan as teeth sink into his shoulder, nipping at whatever flesh is in reach.

“Slut,” comes the garbled hiss. Fury oozes from his voice as he rakes nails down his side. He rucks the dress further up his back. Angel whines at the deep gouges his fingers make coming back down.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you. You filthy little slut.”

A sharp sting causes him to lurch forward. His hand shoots out and grabs the toilet handle. He barely catches himself from toppling over. More harsh blows rain down over his exposed ass. Directly over his tattoo-no- _brand_. Angel grunts and gasps with every smack. Bursts of pain spread like fire with every slap. He can feel the vessels bloom and begin to bruise under the vicious assault. His cock fattens and precum drools from his slit.

“Bad girl,” Alastor growls. But Angel can hear the smile in his voice. He smirks.

It’s short-lived.

Alastor yanks his panties down and _shoves_ in, filling him to near breaking.

It’s too much at once. The overstimulation and immense stretch threaten to drive him over the edge.

“Al,” he whimpers, body pitching forward with each brutal thrust. His thighs shake. “Al, please.” His words fall on deaf ears.

“Tell me who you belong to, you dirty little girl.” He fucks into him harder, ignoring Angel’s squeals of pain.

And abject, spiraling pleasure.

“Say it,” he hisses. A hand snakes around Angel’s throat. Not enough to block circulation, but tight enough to remind him who holds the leash. His cock twitches at the warning.

An explosion of music bursts into the room. As the door swings shut, clinks from the unbuckling of a belt reach Angel’s ears, past the pounding of his heart. The stranger unzips, the sound strikingly loud in the empty room, and then-

“Get the _fuck_ out!” Alastor snarls.

The man yips. His soles squeal on the floor as he scrabbles away. A litany of curses escapes his lips and he apologizes before scuttling out the door. The acrid smell of piss assaults Angel’s nostrils, but it quickly blends into the background as Alastor speeds up his thrusts.

“Say it,” he commands again. “Who do you belong to?”

Angel sucks in a breath and stutters out a name.

“Alastor,” he breathes, the name slithering up from his chest. “I belong to you, Al.”

The thrusts slow. Angel tightens, begging for him to pick up the pace when he hears the muted sound in Alastor’s throat.

He’s humming a fucking lullaby.

Angel’s stomach twists as he finds himself on the cusp of coming. But he staves it off as best as he can to fit in a last request.

“Baby,” he pleads, rocking his ass back. “Come inside, please.”

Alastor prefers not to deal with the clean-up or the ogles directed at Angel’s ass and thighs in public when he inevitably drips out, but Angel’s pleas seem to sway him. He hums, pulling out of Angel with a sloppy, filthy sound. The emptiness is so apparent, then. Angel flushes in humiliation at how wanton and desperate he must be, practically begging for Alastor’s cock to fit back inside him where he fucking belongs.

He hears a wet snap, and finally, the slick head of Alastor’s cock nudges his hole.

“What’s the magic word, princess?”

Angel pinches his eyes closed. He takes a deep breath.

“Please, mommy.”

“That’s a good girl.”

He slams back inside. Angel’s legs quake at the sudden penetration, and it’s all too fucking much. The filthy backdrop, the praise, the ache on his cheeks, the thickness deliciously filling him. Everything at once. The coil of pleasure releases instantaneously. He comes, _hard_. It’s brutally overwhelming, like a needle piercing his veins and plunging the ecstasy in, and he starts to sob.

Alastor holds him through it.

He sniffs, Alastor’s forearm hairs tickling his nose. He grips him tight. The muscles flex under his grasp. When he recovers, he rocks back. Alastor responds, slowly matching his rhythm. The ringing in Angel’s ears is only secondary to the harsh slaps of skin on skin.

At long last, he obeys Angel’s request and pulses deep inside him. He deliberately pulls out sooner than expected, still coming, and finishes on his thighs. He takes a breather to inspect his handiwork, murmuring endearments as he rubs his come onto Angel’s naked flesh. The backs of his thighs stick to the fabric as he smooths the hemline over his ass. Shimmying the panties up his legs, Angel shifts his hips with Alastor’s encouragement. He eases his thighs through the holes as Alastor fits his panties in place. He secures them, trapping the sticky seed within the silk.

“My filthy, darling girl,” he croons. Angel unequivocally feels like it.

Alastor runs soothing fingers through his wig, straightening it so that it frames his face correctly. He doesn’t bother with his own, so Angel does the same for him. They finally wobble their way out of the stall. Angel spares a glance in the mirror on their way out.

He looks absolutely _wrecked_.

He catches Alastor’s eyes in the reflection. His boyfriend’s smug visage grins back. His canines peek out from smudged plum lips and flash under the grimy bathroom lights. The door swings open with a solid push.

Alastor possessively grips the small of Angel’s back and guides him back out into the fray.

* * *

“So what _did_ Medusa say to you?”

Angel shrugs. He angles Alastor’s face to the right. “Threatened me. That if I hurt ya, I’ll be in deep shit.”

“Ah. Shovel talk. I’ll speak to her. Anything else you’d like filled in?”

He snickers. “Sure. Just how mad was Vox when ya won the bet?”

“Hmm. He switched his plane ticket and splurged on first-class due to the apparently egregious opinion that Rosie held.”

“So what pissed him off?”

“I quote, ‘Alastor has a better bum.’”

“Yeah, I’ll drink to that.”

Alastor purposely moves his chin to the left. “Oh? Since when were you ogling Vox’s posterior enough to compare?”

Angel rolls his eyes. He tilts Alastor’s chin up. “Jesus, babe. Relax. He’s my manager, and I think he’s mostly straight.”

“Being attracted to both sexes is valid, dear. And whatever gave you that idea?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. Well, Val used to bitch and moan about how many times Vox turned him down. They mighta hooked up once, like, years ago, but I could never get a _straight_ answer outta the guy.”

Alastor grimaces. “Unfortunately, that is not news to me. But the reminder is still horrific. And appalling. A hellish scenario, really. Utterly _ghoulish_.”

As Alastor gripes, Angel dabs shadow onto his lids. His tongue pokes out as he painstakingly swipes it on, buffing lightly with the brush before switching to a different one meant for blending. He beats the bold demarcation into submission, melding the colors together into a gradual gradient. Angel dusts highlighter below his brow to smooth the harsh lines when Husk drunkenly ambles into the room. He lifts his head and takes an inebriated, squinted survey of it before slowly backing up. Alastor, as always, misses nothing.

“Ah, Husker! Just in time!”

He sneers, juggling between flipping them off and chugging his drink. “Fuck you, pal. I’m out.”

Angel stamps his foot. “Husk, c’mere.”

He growls. “No. I don’t wanna.”

“Husk, please?” Angel switches gears to a quieter tone and releases his secret weapon: wide, guileless eyes. Alastor is suitably impressed. Husk curses, a string of them spitting from his foul mouth. He stomps over and parks himself on the couch, regardless. He crosses his arms, swearing creatively under his breath. Alastor toes his shin, taking great pains not to move his face.

“You know, we _all_ benefit from Angel sharpening his techniques. And a makeover will do wonders for your charming smile and somewhat-welcoming demeanor! Why, he could buff those frown lines right out! Whaddaya think?”

“I think I’m this close to jamming my foot up your ass.”

Angel leans back, humming. He taps the pointed end of his brush on his chin. “Al’s right, Husk. If I can get good enough, I can start transitionin’ my camshow to different things, y’know. Age gracefully and all that.”

“You got at least twenty years before ya hit the expiration date on your profession, kid.” Husk rubs his face, sighing. “Anyway, can’t ya practice on yourself? The fuck do ya need us for?”

Angel hums. “Well, we all got different skin tones. That’s one reason. The second is that Al wants to rub somethin’ in his buddy’s”-“No, absolutely not, he is _not_ my friend,” Alastor insists-“face, so I’m helpin’ daddy with that.”

Husk gags. Alastor parts his lips obediently as Angel swipes then dabs on the liquid lip color. After he’s finished, he turns to Husk, brushes wielded like weapons between his fingers.

“Ready?”

As the panic sets across his face, Alastor gleefully surmises that he isn’t.

Not in the least.

* * *

Alastor struts in front of the mirror. He smiles at his reflection.

“I’m _much_ prettier than you.”

Husk scowls back. “Fuck you.”

Alastor may be more conventionally attractive, but Husk thinks he looks just fine. Sure, there’s not much that Angel can camouflage regarding the drunk bloat or sallow skin. And the bags under his eyes. But hell, Husk will take what he can get, and right now-at least to his lowered standards-he’s a stone-cold fox.

He wouldn’t mind a masturbatory mirror sesh with _this_ lovely lady, that’s for sure.

“Nice job, Twinkie,” escapes his lips before he can even comprehend the words, much less rein them back.

Angel preens. “Thanks, Husk.” He winks. “I try.”

Alastor predictably and single-handedly ruins the moment.

“Just call me the cat’s meow,” he says, waggling his brows.

They groan in unison.

* * *

Her phone lights up.

Rosie releases an irritated huff after wringing her hands of the noxious fluids. The faucet drips as she shuts it off. After scouring the rest of the innards and sufficiently toweling off her extremities, she glances over the message.

It’s a flattering portrait of Alastor. The makeup is a bit overdone and heavy-handed, but it makes for a scintillating aesthetic.

The caption:

**Guys make passes at men with glasses!**

She can’t resist.

“Oh Vox, look!”

She dangles it over his shoulder.

Predictably, the man whinges. It’s loud enough that she can hardly hear the show he was watching, some tripe or other about wealthy, insipid, American housewives day drinking.

He’s on his last leg of his sympathy allotment for the day when he shouts, eyes as wild as a madman’s, “Where’s the fuckin’ makeup?”

Rosie ignores him. She opens the browser on her phone and resumes her search for flights. A clattering atop her table indicates that he has located her compacts. Rosie resolutely scrolls down.

She’s heard Hawaii was decent this time of year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. #GiveRosieaholiday
> 
> 2\. Alastor and Vox are both pretty. NY contest verdict: Alastor ended up with 7 numbers, and Vox 6


	17. Divergent (Alastor/Angel Dust & Alastor/Stolas & Angel Dust/Original Male Character, Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't a love song.
> 
> It was a goddamn elegy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One path in the fork in the road.
> 
> An AU of an AU which diverges from the first chapter of Why Try (To Change Me Now)
> 
> Tags: Cheating, angst, AU of an AU

“Where’s Stolas,” he snarls, lip curling.

“No idea what you’re speaking of,” he smoothly lies, angling his body to avoid him. It never works. He pins him to the door. Alastor hisses as his back sharply connects with the handle.

“Stop fuckin’ lyin’,” Angel says, with a hitch in his throat. He studies Alastor’s neck, pinpointing his glare on a specific spot.

Shit, he thinks. His hand reaches up unthinkingly to rub it. Alastor curses inwardly. He’d forgotten, or he’s gotten so used to the biting and marks that he’s stopped trying to cover it up or dissuade the man in the first place. It’s not like he has anyone to hide them from.

Anymore.

“Congratulations on your nuptials,” he spits, apropos of absolutely nothing except for perhaps revenge, and fueled by more than a small amount of spite. He relishes in the flinch, but it lasts only for a moment before the longing seeps in again, spreading against his will, webbing in the cracks.

“Thanks,” his erstwhile lover whispers. He attempts to shield his left hand, but it’s to no avail. Alastor spotted it the minute they collided.

How could he not.

It’s the polar opposite of the ring he planned to propose with. Eons ago.

Once upon a fucking time.

“If that’s all,” he hedges, voice blessedly steady.

“It ain’t.”

Angel is stronger than he looks. Alastor refuses to watch so he closes his eyes. Because too soon he’s far too close and too familiar and Alastor is too weak and exhausted for any of this nonsensical prattle.

His lips taste like the sea.

Alastor’s eyes flutter back open, and he digs in deep to perform the most difficult showman’s trick he’s ever fit up his sleeve and gently pushes Angel away.

“Stop,” he says, and he half congratulates himself at how convincing he sounds.

How falsely sincere.

“We’re done,” he repeats. It’s the same mantra that haunts him in the early morning confines, before the dreams have a chance to fade away and when he rolls over to the other side of the bed grasping out for someone that will never return.

No warmth. No grasping hands and hushed endearments. Or the press of lips to fingers and the promises murmured in the spaces betwixt.

Just emptiness and week-old sheets.

It hangs between them, those string of words, fated red or otherwise, and all unsaid.

All irreparably broken.

* * *

“Please,” Angel begs. He reaches out and laces their fingers together. Alastor stares, momentarily shocked, at a sight he had long forgotten. They fit together as they’ve always had, less parts to a whole and more like two souls cursed in perpetual purgatory.

He doesn’t answer.

Alastor allows himself to be dragged from the room, and up the elevators, and to a bed. He doesn’t fancy himself a weak man, but he is morally reprehensible, so there’s that.

Besides, he could never truly deny Angel anything. And vice versa.

The mattress sinks under their combined weight. “I’m not the one who’s married, Angel.”

His partner divests him of his shirt, throwing it to the floor. “No, but you’re fuckin’ a guy who is.” Angel has a cruel streak that expands a mile wide but it’s nothing compared to Alastor’s.

“Are we talking about Stolas or you?”

Bullseye. Angel growls, tears streaming down his face. “I fuckin’ _knew_ it. I knew you were still fuckin’ him,” he hisses. A part of Alastor wants to argue; to mollify Angel and his jealousy just like he used to. But looming impartiality desires to cut its teeth on his abject misery.

It’s no surprise as to which one wins out.

“Last I checked, I can fuck whoever I please, Anthony. It’s not like I have anything chaining me down any longer. No gaolers this time around.” He sneers. “Forgive me if I don’t share your mawkish sentimentality.”

His fingers work in tandem with his cruel mouth. He strips Angel as quickly as the other does him until they are finally naked, outer skins shed, revealing gnarled knots and scar tissue of anguish and acrimony underneath.

“Fuck you, Al,” Angel bites out as he lowers himself onto Alastor’s cock.

“Fuck you.”

The resulting feud is ferocious and livid. It is, at turns, both loving and hateful. And it pales in comparison to whatever tenderness they shared once. It has been twisted beyond recognition.

But somehow, like a broken chord, it still resonates.

How cliché, Alastor absently muses as he fucks his ex-lover into the mattress. Angel cries out, and it feels like he grows a hundred limbs at the way he positively clings to Alastor, just like a second skin. He keens through each of Alastor’s punishing thrusts. The tears flow freely, now, and it’s pathetic.

It would be heartbreaking if Alastor still possessed one.

The wedding band slices into his cheek. Alastor wants to turn his head and bite the damned thing off, finger and all. But then Angel moans, “Alastor” and again, he is lost.

Angel is stunning in the throes of passion, as usual. He’s gained some weight since they last parted, and he wears it confidently. From what Alastor has heard through the grapevine, he quit his job at the behest of his husband and now spends his days at home as a kept man. His husband is richer than Alastor could ever dream to be and hails from old money. Rosie and Vox assure him that the man is little more than an affluent benefactor, but he knows that they’re only blowing smoke. He was always too poor, unduly inadequate, and aberrant in his own skin for the likes of Angel. They had a nasty fight one night when Angel accused him of hoarding food, and he snarled back, vehemently defending his decision. Enough to scare Angel away from the cupboard for a long time. Alastor is certain that his new beau would never do such an unbefitting thing. After all, he has money. And now, Angel.

Jackpot.

But then Alastor cups his cheek, and it nestles perfectly into his palm.

Like it was molded for him.

Alastor pretends he can’t feel the wetness at first, but eventually glides his thumb over it and wipes it away.

“I hate you,” Angel raggedly whispers. “I fuckin’ hate ya so much.”

It’s nearly the truth, Alastor thinks.

Two sides of the same coin.

* * *

He’s thrusting into him, and there it still is, in all its mocking glory.

_Property of Al_

That isn’t exactly true anymore.

The hook drives further into his heart, piercing through to the other side. It tears the dying muscle from its thoracic confines and leaves it juddering against his ribs. The one constant, savagely torn from his life.

He’s seen intestinal wounds heal better.

* * *

Stolas, or anyone for that matter, will never hold a candle to Angel.

When he comes, it’s with little regard for Angel’s comfort. It’s all teeth, gnashing, and pain, but the man writhing under him goads him on.

“Harder, Alastor. Please. I want to feel ya after. For as long as I-”

He tunes out the rest. It’s all empty babbling at this juncture.

An all-encompassing flash of prior madness strikes him, previously buried under rot and so, so much rage. He itches to place his hands around Angel’s throat, to squeeze until his fingerprints indent bruises into the curve of his neck, so no one else can ever have him.

The thought arouses and frightens him, enough for him to arrive at a definite decision.

When Angel comes, Alastor shuts his eyes. It’s too bright, in his mind.

_The late afternoon sun traipsed slowly across the sky, and the birds trilled, fluttering their feathers on the windowsill. Angel, below, gazed up at him with unfocused, mismatched eyes, and arched his back. Alastor raked a greedy hand down his chest as his skin splotched rose pink._

_Angel mouthed his name as he unraveled. The dusty blush under his freckles stained the rest of his skin as he released. I love you, he said. Dizzy with it, Alastor followed him over the precipice._

He needs to keep that.

The right memory of their lovemaking must be preserved. As the final one. Not this, this bastardized version, erupting with anger, pain, _loss_.

Despair.

This one is savage and desperate; rife with confusion and accusations and flinging pain that they do not voice, but show. It’s no less vicious, and does not hurt any less but the physical proof fades faster.

The gouges are still there, unseen but indelible.

They _were_ sacrosanct, and Alastor refuses to lose that memory too.

Like everything else.

* * *

“I thought ya quit.”

His head dips down as he lights the packed end. “Old habits die hard,” he drawls, the cigarette bobbing with each syllable. He inhales deeply, then exhales. A long plume escapes his nostrils as he leers a path down Angel’s soft angles and smooth curves. “Apparently.”

A light, after-coitus flush intermingles with Angel’s freckled skin, but it deepens with the implication. Alastor smiles around the smoke.

“Come now, Angel.” He scrapes his nails along Angel’s side, curling over his hip. He smirks as he trembles, the red lines sinking into his skin. “Did you really think I’d quit my treasured vices so easily?”

Angel doesn’t answer, and that gives him room for pause.

“I wonder,’ he starts, but doesn’t finish.

Truth be told, he’s always wondered, especially during their numerous fights, if Angel sought comfort in the arms of another, more accommodating person. Someone with less of an edge to skirt around; someone sandpapered down and not at all like the razors and barbed wires that bite into his flesh every time he dared to wander too close to the deadened ruins of Alastor’s soul. In return for Angel’s proffered heart, Alastor razed his defenses. Ruthlessly and judiciously.

Which left him with no such solace.

Perhaps he and Valentino had more in common than previously thought.

He doesn’t finish the sentence, allowing it to curl around them like smoke. Much like the impetuous, useless feelings permeating the thoughts that drift, unspoken, in the cavernous maw between them.

Alastor blinks up at the ceiling.

The wallpaper in the corners of the walls are waterlogged and peeling. For a second, everything appears overly vivid. Splotches bloom like mold, marring his vision. He pinches his eyes shut. The nausea abates, somewhat.

“Fuck off, Al. I never, ever, fuckin’ walked out on ya like this. If that’s what you’re insinuatin’.”

“Good to know,” Alastor says, dryly. The pang in his stomach subsides by a hair.

Silence falls over them. It’s uncomfortable and oppressive. Before he can sit up and dust himself off, Angel blithely says, “I saw your name on the marquee the other day. Everyone’s talkin’ about your show.”

Alastor hums. Angel infuriatingly takes it as encouragement to trudge on. “That’s what ya wanted, right? To be known? Infamous?”

He groans. “Please, not this again.” Alastor sits up. A hand shoots out and grips his wrist.

“Don’t go. Please.” _Not yet_. “How have ya been?”

Angel releases his grip and flips to his side. Lazy Sunday mornings flit, like an antique picture show, through Alastor’s mind. He barely restrains himself from reaching over and tracing those tantalizing freckles with his finger. A flash of recognition flickers across Angel’s face, but it dies like hope.

“Never better,” he lies. “I eat bacon now, so that’s one glaring benefit!”

He forces out a laugh, and it is painfully ugly, even to his ears. The joke, predictably, falls flat. Alastor attempts a coup.

“Speaking of. How’s the porcine?”

“Gettin’ fatter every day.”

“Living up to his namesake? The first part, that is. Heaven forbid the second.”

For a second, they collide, same wavelength and all. They bark out unselfconscious laughter, sides splitting and malignant awkwardness dissipating. For once, there are tears in Angel’s eyes that have nothing to do with heartbreak. In that blessed reprieve, everything is as it was, and nothing hurt.

Angel chuckles, the fit winding down, and what remains of Alastor’s heart swoops to his stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, between breaths. “Hates…well, ya know. Tries to bite him at every chance. Ya know pigs can be cannibals?”

Alastor doesn’t respond to that. What could he possibly say.

Angel quickly switches the subject.

“How’s ‘Douille?”

“Dead,” he states bluntly, reaching across Angel to smash the bud of his cigarette into ashes. The filter flops onto the crystal as he lets it fall.

“What? When did he-”

“It’s been a fulfilling three years. He passed peacefully. I made sure of that.” He laughs again, this time hollow and sharp. “Don’t think I’d ever be up for adopting another one of god’s own creatures again.”

“Why the fuck didn’t ya tell me?” Distress stains his voice, and an unfamiliar pang of guilt thrums in Alastor’s chest.

“And what would you have done? Rushed right on over? Set up a funeral for a _dog_?” he says, frost coating his words. Alastor remembers the rough pads of his paws nestled in his palm as he comforted his pet for the last time. “No, I think I’m finished with dependents for good.”

Angel, as always, can’t seem to help himself:

“What if Stolas wants one,” he sneers, stoking the hearth deliberately. His face contorts, ugly over years of ache. “Ya know, even after all those years with Val and guys who treated me worse than the bottom of their shoe, you walkin’ away hurt me the fuckin’ most.”

“Really,” he drawls, around the stabbing throb in his gut. He pushes in the hilt even further, because that’s just what Alastor does.

“After all that mess, the one thing that pained you most was me leaving? When you practically preempted me to? Fascinating.”

“ _Stop._ Just, stop.”

“What? What would you like me to change? Again?”

“Don’t give me that, Al. It was _you_ who fucked us up, an’ ya know it.” He does. “Just fuckin’ stop givin’ me that goddamn fake smile! For once, let me inside. Please.”

“And flagellate myself all over again? I think not. You, if I remember correctly, are the masochist. I’m most decidedly not.”

“You’re _still_ such a fuckin’ prick.”

He climbs on Alastor, slotting his biting mouth over his, and swallows the residual smoke.

They share the taste of ashes.

* * *

They fuck again.

Alastor tells himself it means nothing, even as the fist around his heart squeezes and his stomach falls to his feet. Angel comes, crying.

Everything, irrecoverably shattered in pieces across the floor.

“Why,” Angel asks, immediately after. It’s such a soft plea. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. “Why did ya go home with him that night?”

“Why couldn’t ya wait for me?”

Because he needed to splinter Angel’s trust irrevocably. He needed to break Angel before he broke him.

He needed to let go of him before he lost himself.

He kisses Angel, and the tenderness he’d worked so hard to keep at bay seeps in.

“Because you would inevitably leave me again. And I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

He pinches his eyes shut. Angel hisses into his mouth but doesn’t stop kissing him.

“That’s such a stupid fuckin’ reason,” he says. Their lips meet unhurriedly, mingling with tears.

Alastor agrees.

He never said he was a wise man.

* * *

(He has to remember that this writhing man under him doesn’t belong to him anymore.

It’s the path of blood through the heart, pumping the same way due to contractions, valves, pressure. Everything mechanically working as it should, but not as he wishes it to.)

* * *

Alastor stares up at the ceiling, empty in more ways than one. He scans the minuscule patterns in the paint: all the chips, water damage, and the rest of the minor imperfections that only desperate strangers who have lost everything fixate on. It’s the perspective of someone for whom turmoil and longing are bedfellows; a man too numb to feel regret, or even love.

This is the gutter, and there are no such things as stars.

Just peeling paint and ceiling cracks.

“We coulda had this.”

He laughs, a hollow bark more than anything genuine. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s the most genuine he’s been in a long time.

“Stolen moments fettered away in cheap hotel rooms?”

It exits his mouth, dry as dust. Angel flips to his side. Alastor doesn’t bother meeting his gaze.

“Ya know what I mean,” he hisses.

“I’m afraid I don’t.” He swings his legs over the bed. “Do enlighten me.”

“This, ya fuckin’ asshole!” His hand dartts out to hold him back, but Alastor is ready for it. He dodges it, and steps into his boxer briefs. Alastor can envision the panic in his face as he searches for the rest of his clothes. He doesn’t check behind him to see if he’s right.

“This,” Angel says, but louder and with an anguished twang. “You, me, _us_. Fat Nuggets and Andouille and two and a half kids and a stupid white picket fence and a mortgage and dad jokes and fuckin’ Christmas mornings.”

The buttons on Alastor’s shirt will not cooperate.

“Baseball games, easter egg huntin’, parent-teacher conferences, second honeymoons, mid-life crises. The works, Al. We were supposed to have had this.”

If only.

“You’re impulsive, Anthony. Your attention span is atrocious. You can’t focus on more than one thing at a time, and your laziness and inability to act beyond your capricious nature will never bode well for a family, much less pets,” spits the king of self-sabotage.

“This is nothing but a rather pathetic cri de cœur. So go home, back to your comfortable, mundane life.”

Alastor can’t bring himself to say husband, because well. It still stings, saltwater in scrapes, after all these years. And why would it not?

“And stop gallivanting around. You’re a grown man. We both know that I’m not a part of your life anymore, and your actions should reflect that.”

He dresses swiftly, considering the trembling in his fingers. He ignores the rhetorical question blaring in his mind.

_And what of yours?_

Alastor was never a man who denied himself much of anything. Angel, hair mussed from their rough tumble, blinking rapidly with those red-rimmed, mismatched eyes, will always be his Achilles’ heel. He toes on his shoes and returns to the bed. Carefully, he curls his index finger under the pulse point of Angel’s wrist. He traces a light path over the faint protrusions of veins and bones. After delicate exploration, he cradles Angel’s wrist in his palm. Covering Angel’s hand with his, Alastor effectively bookends his left hand between them. Like parentheses holding half a sentence.

For a pulse, Alastor pretends that they did have this _._

Before Angel can react properly, Alastor swiftly retracts his hands and moves off the bed.

Angel’s voice floats over his mental din. “If ya had a choice, would ya do it all over again?”

“What?”

“This. Knowing what ya know now.”

“Yes,” he whispers. In a heartbeat. “Yes,” he repeats, sure.

“You’re gonna say that this was a mistake,” Angel says, voice flat.

“No,” Alastor breathes. He turns. Angel snaps his head up at the admission.

He loops his tie and tugs it in his customary knot. He walks to the door, steadfastly ignoring the pleading, outstretched hand, and spares a single look back.

“You were never a mistake, dear.”

(But maybe we were)

He trudges forward, foot in front of heel.

Lest he turns into a pillar of salt.

The door clicks shut, and he rushes to the elevator. He stabs the button before he loses his nerve. The elevator doors close-

Just as the slam of a door and footfalls echo in the hallway.

* * *

His heart, rusted and held together by crumbling hinges.

Like skinning his knee.

He turns his mind away from all the possibilities they could have had, just as Angel said: mundane grocery trips, gentle ribbings watching movies, easy Sunday mornings.

The farmer’s market on Saturdays where they would try different desserts and Angel would inevitably declare his tastier and abscond with it.

Those mornings.

He rears his fist back and slams it into the elevator doors, hard enough to bruise his knuckles.

All that's left are dust and diatribes.

* * *

He doesn’t think he can ever forgive Angel.

Not for leaving. Not for falling in love with someone else. Not for marrying.

But for the space he left behind.

The space that gapes, cobwebbed and cracked, where Alastor’s heart used to be.

* * *

He flees, not to his apartment, but Stolas’s second clandestine one, and fucks the man until he’s begging and sobbing into thousand count sheets.

He’s so hard, so unfulfilled, that he cannot think straight.

After what feels like forever, he finally spills inside.

Alastor collapses, eternally hollow.

* * *

He passes the cigarette.

The smoke slithers in his lungs, a comforting embrace that substitutes for the lack of warmth. He exhales, a plume of spiraling grey, reflecting the whole of this fucked up situation and the mess he’s made of his life.

“It’s a half-life,” he says, out loud to the ceiling and no one in particular.

Stolas responds, an answer to the unsaid question. “Says who,” he says, exhaling the last word. It sounds like a soft hoot.

“Come off it. This,” he says, gesturing around the room, “is nothing but a consolation prize.”

He scoffs, acerbity dripping from his voice. “Look at us.” He bares his teeth. “Pining for people beyond our feeble grasp.”

For a moment, Stolas remains quiet. Alastor rears up at the uncharacteristic silence.

The shades of sorrow etched in his face could mirror his own.

“I loved Blitzo, true,” he murmurs, “but that was a bygone era, and this is now.”

And then, with a trace of lingering sadness: “You’re either oblivious or cruel to still think that, after all these years.”

He swoops down and presses lips to his cheek. Fingers graze his jaw, tilting his face. Alastor automatically turns and captures his lips in a perfunctory kiss. Stolas tastes like smoke, and nothing like Angel.

All Alastor tastes of is Angel.

After a long, searching look, Stolas peels away, getting up and padding to the bathroom door.

“I’m having a shower,” he announces before slipping past the crack.

“Yes,” Alastor murmurs, introducing another cigarette to this mouth while ignoring the lashes of pain whipping against his ribcage.

His phone vibrates. His heart leaps. Heartbeat thumping in his throat, he fumbles with his phone, unlocking it before reading the text message. He scans the top.

**Shep**

It releases, free-falling back down. The disappointment is immeasurable. It weighs a ton, a sackful of rocks pinning his chest.

**Dinner tonight? I’m in your neck of the woods**

Alastor’s trembling fingers manage, after the third try, to type out a response.

**Sure. Where?**

Shep proceeds to list a slew of restaurants when another text arrives. He swipes down, annoyed at having his concentration broken, and his heart stutters to a dead stop.

**My Heart**

And written underneath:

**I miss you**

**I still lo**

He can’t bring himself to read the rest of it. Alastor is about to put the damn thing to bed once and for all when Stolas reenters the room.

“What time should I pick you up?”

“For what?”

He purses his lips. “For Octavia’s show. Honestly, Alastor. She’s been harping about it for weeks. You should know. She adores you.”

He frowns, still staring at the screen. “Right. What time is it again?”

“Six.” Stolas leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “Why? Any other riveting plans?”

He huffs. “Don’t be stupid.”

Alastor returns to his phone.

**Can we do drinks instead? I have a prior engagement.**

**Sure. Would love drinks**

**Even better**

Alastor resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he would. The bed dips as Stolas sinks down next to him.

“Who was that?”

He means his conversation with Shep, but all Alastor can think of are the unread confessions he will not acknowledge. Stolas snuggles up against his side, resting his hand on his chest. The demarcations of the dual bands on his left hand are strikingly violable in their symbolism.

Alastor looks away, past the windows and into the fading afternoon light.

“No one important.”

* * *

He won’t repeat this mistake. He will not lower his ambitions again for something as silly and inconsequential as love.

Alastor vowed that to himself years ago.

He swore that everyone would know his name. He may not die a martyr, but he will live on in infamy. And no one, not even Angel, will derail his course.

Alastor ignores the shattering in his chest as he deletes the messages.

And essentially, his heart.

It’s just as well, Alastor thinks.

Some people are just too broken to be loved.

* * *

The acrid stench of tobacco pervades the air. He snuffs out the cigarette in the glass ashtray and turns to curl on his side. The curtains billow in the breeze. Alastor closes his eyes.

And waits for the sharp bitterness and longing to dissipate.


	18. Christmas (Alastor/Angel Dust & Ensemble, Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief snapshots of Christmas

“So.”

“Right.”

“Yep.”

A drawn-out moan.

“How is everyone finding the holidays?”

“Great!”

“Never better.”

“Oh _fuck_ , babe, you’re so _big_!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Language, dear.”

“Sorry. Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, yeah, c’mon, daddy! _Harder_!”

“How the fuck is the bed not broken?”

“How the fuck is the _everything_ not broken?”

“I’m willin’ to pay out of pocket to bless and holy water the fuck outta this house.”

“ _Fuck_ , Angel!”

“Kill me. Now.”

“That’s fuckin' _it_! I’m leavin’!”

“Sit down, Vox, or so help me, I will strap you to this chair.”

“Oooh, kinky!”

“Ugh, please don’t, Niffty. None of us except for your boyfriend had any alcohol yet.”

“Fuck, Al! Yes, faster, _choke_ me, daddy!”

“ _Please_ choke him! At least one of them will shut the fuck up!”

“Neat! Daddy kink!”

“Don’t even think about it, Niff.”

“Oh! Speaking of, I forgot to comment on your last story, Niffty! But cool beans! I’m not a fan of interspecies, er, relations myself, but you did a neat job of portraying Al-”

“Babe, I love you, but I really need you to stop there.”

“Sorry, Vags. It was a good story, though!”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“What in the ever-lovin’ fuck.”

“Alastor’s a deer demon! And Angel is his human sacrifice who must be penetrated to complete the ritual! It’s for the furry fanbase.”

“Are you fuckin’…dude, how long have you guys been together again? Is this shit normal?”

“Man, don’t get me started.”

“Hold still, you impudent brat!”

“This is what we get for comin’ early. And fuck you all, that was not a double entendre! Goddammit, Rosie. I told ya we should’ve waited.”

“Er, it’s not so bad, Vox. My mom and dad are much worse.”

“I _did not_ need to know that about Luci, kid.”

“Harder! Oh, fuck, right there, daddy!”

An elongated whine, punctuated by a “Fuck, Anthony, daddy’s coming!”

“That’s _it_! I’m goin’ up there!”

“Oh, sit down, Vox. From the sounds of it, they’re almost finished.”

“Dammit, Rosie! This is bullshit! And you! Is this what ya go through every fuckin’ day?”

“On the daily, yep. I’ve seen Al’s bare ass more than I’d ever wanted to for fifty lifetimes. Ya ever heard a twenty-four hour compilation of clapping ass? Yeah. Booze helps. Want some?”

“Fuck yes.”

“I applaud you on your restraint.”

“Got no fucking choice. They bone everywhere there’s room. Al’s beating the kid’s cheeks wherever humanly possible. If ya took a black light to this house-”

“Yes, thank you, Husk. We get the picture.”

“I’m fuckin’ bleachin’ everythin’ when I get home.”

“Yeesh. Same.”

* * *

Alastor arrives first, hastily adjusting his trousers and festive sweater as he hurries down the staircase. He reaches the foot of it before looking up.

At the sea of faces, with expressions ranging from disgusted and murderous to positively gleeful.

His first instinct is to bolt, but good manners keep his feet tied to the linoleum. Angel follows him down soon after, colliding with Alastor’s back at the foot of the stairs. He swears, then also glances up. Angel, however, attempts to flee, but a swift grab and yank to whatever fabric his skimpy outfit consists of remedies that situation. Alastor pins a whining Angel to his side, plasters a smile on his face, and swans into their living room.

He greets the owner of the murderous expression first.

“Hullo, Vaggie,” he says. The corners of his lips hike higher up his face. She still hasn’t forgiven him for the debacle with Angel, and he can’t blame her, much. It’s quiet comfort that Angel has friends that go to bat for him, even if it is at his expense.

“Nice sweater,” she bites out in an attempt to be civil. Without turning, Alastor can practically feel the hovering thumbs up and rapid head-nodding behind him. It’s amusing and a bit sweet, if misplaced, and the girl _is_ trying. At least for her girlfriend’s benefit.

However, as a self-proclaimed monster of chaos, Alastor decides to throw a wrench in that plan.

“Why, thank you! I was contemplating dressing up as Santa Claus, but I’ve had enough of a lapful of Angel for one day!” He grins, tilting his head. “Or shall I say, Angel’s had his _fill_ of my lap.”

“Yup! Oh-kay! Thanks, Al!” Charlie squeaks as she swoops around him and drags her fuming girlfriend away by her belt loops. “Let’s go see what Niffty’s up to, Vags! Heard she’s working on another story-”

Her voice peters off as they flee. He waves cheerily.

“Nice talking to you, ladies!” He fixes his faux antlers then pivots to face his nearest audience. “Incidentally, he’s been a very bad boy.”

Vox retches. He coughs up a fair amount of the revolting eggnog that Husk insisted on making. As he pounds his chest, Angel sidles up next to Alastor where he belongs, and runs a finger down his wool-clad chest.

“Ho, ho, ho, daddy,” he purrs, referencing his own sweater. He cups the front of Alastor’s trousers, effectively stroking the outline of his fattening cock. Alastor grins, shifting his stance to minimize the space between them. That is to say, he _thrusts_ into Angel’s hand.

Vox wheezes as the liquid seeps into his lungs. He’s turning a fetching shade of blue when Rosie intervenes and drives a fist into his back. He hacks, expelling out a spray of cream and egg whites. Angel gags. Alastor pouts.

“You _would_ ruin my Christmas present, wouldn’t you, darling?”

“If he dies, it’ll ruin my chance at getting properly pissed tonight. And so help me, Alastor, I will not spend another Christmas Eve in an interrogation room.”

Angel frowns. “Uh, what?”

“Oh, that was a jolly Christmas, wasn’t it, dear? So riveting, and positively _explosive_ with holiday cheer!”

“Still don’t know how ya got off scot-free,” Vox hoarsely grouses after clearing his throat.

“Are we complaining, or are we appreciative that I was able to post bail? Hmm? Which is it?”

“He has a point, Vox.”

“Easy for you to say! He bailed you out first, then let me rot overnight!”

“I swung by in the morning, didn’t I?”

Angel snorts, attempting to stifle his laugh with his sleeve. Vox grumbles and folds his arms.

“Fuck off, kid. You try sittin’ in the drunk tank overnight with nothin’ but a shared shit bucket with twenty other dudes. Speakin’ of, who the fuck gave asshole the green light to decorate this house?”

“Quite. Far be it from me, Alastor, but I must say that your taste in art is rather…”

“Eclectic? Aesthetic? Impeccable?”

“Perverted as fuck.”

“Ah, Epicurean.”

Staggering by, Husk snickers as he catches the tail end of the conversation.

“Are ya talking about ‘Frosted Twinkie’ or ‘Shibari Shenanigans’? Because then, yeah. Yeah, Al, you’re a fucking pervert.” His drink sloshes as he punctuates his point.

Alastor guffaws, slapping his knee like it’s the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

“Oh, Husker, you jokester!” He wipes his eye, sighing. “As it happens, there’s a picture show starring the titular Angel Dust and yours truly, titled, ‘Angel of Glory-hole’,” he says, gesturing animatedly to their guests, “and it’s garnering decent reviews so far!”

Husk and Vox stare, slack-jawed. Rosie sighs, polishing off her wine. Alastor elaborates.

“Yes, the title could use a tad more pizazz, but Angel insisted it was the done thing.”

“What the fu-it’s a goddamn _porno_ of Angel stuck in a fucking wall, and you in various disguises creampie-ing the twinkie and frosting his cake from the other end!”

“Ah, so you are familiar with it! Thoughts?”

“Only my thoughts of introducing my foot up your-”

“No need to be crude,” Alastor sniffs. “Honestly, Vox, jealousy is so passé.”

“I’ll show ya passé, ya cocksu- _ow_! Jeeze, Grinch much, Rosie?”

“Don’t touch me.”

Alastor turns away from the conversation, slipping a roving hand over his boyfriend’s hip. Angel nuzzles into him, shielding his face in Alastor’s sweater. They picked the waving narwhale design out a week ago; Alastor was over the moon that the store had a festive one to the tune of his favorite holiday movie, and in his size, no less. In any case, it was miles better than Vox’s ridiculous one. Alastor turned up his nose after he read the tagline of the faux movie slogan.

The night the reindeer died, indeed.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flicker and ebb. Husk belches, holding up his drink near the light switches in mock salute.

They step back to marvel at the sight.

Garlands of multi-colored lights drape along the railing, winding around the wooden pillars at the foot of the staircase where they continue their ascent, floating along in looping patterns on the wall, held up by invisible tape. Bouquets of poinsettia decorate the mantles and flat surfaces, their petals fanning out like points in a star. Wreaths hang from the walls, each one lovingly handcrafted by and reflecting the residents of the home. Embedded in one: mini liquor bottles. Woven in another: rose pink ribbons and clouds of baby’s breath. In the last: radio accessories, stained in what appears to be red paint.

Alastor and Angel took turns stringing them up, balancing on each other’s shoulders, while Husk directed ineffectively from beneath. To put it mildly, Husk’s height was impractical for decorating anything other than the ground and the lower branches of the tree. Niffty was of an even shorter stature, which left Alastor and Angel with the lion’s share of the work.

For once, greedily observing Angel’s effervescent expression as he strung lights across him, Alastor didn’t mind at all.

And in the middle of their living room: the pièce de résistance.

The tree towers over them. Its pine fragrance wafts through the rooms, heightened by the heat radiating from the circuits and lights. Tinsel snakes around the boughs, glittering silver and gold under the prismatic glow. The decorations twist in a dance of their own accord.

The bulbs shimmer and wink, kaleidoscopic fireflies in a galaxy of arbitrary stars.

Alastor pulls Angel closer to him, and they gaze upon the artificial sky together.

* * *

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas,_

_Let your heart be light_

_From now on, our troubles will be out of sight_

He touches Angel’s nose with his, apparently heedless of the company surrounding them.

Angel flushes. Chills skate down his spine and nervous fluttering swarms his stomach. The initial sensation settled down over the year, but it still echoes that first freefall; when everything was novel and vivid, and Angel’s heart flew out of his chest every time he left work and rushed home to be greeted with Alastor’s expectant smile. Angel hopes this feeling never fades, and that the jitters and toe curls will stay afflictions forever.

His breath tickles the tip of Angel’s nose, and Angel is struck suddenly with the irrefutable fact that it will.

He’s sure of it.

“Shit! Angie! Al? The piggy is eating the tinsel!”

Angel curses, breaking free. “Again?” he hollers.

He turns on his heel, but a strong grip circles his bicep, heat branding into the woven yarns of his sweater.

“Sweetheart,” Alastor murmurs, “I can go.”

Angel softens. His shoulders relax as his breath escapes him in a sigh. He shakes his head.

“Thanks, babe, but I got this. That was Cherri, and yeah, she’s late as hell, but she’s still my best friend and I gotta go play nice.” A flush travels up his neck at Alastor’s dark, appraising look. He squeezes his thighs together and hopes his boyfriend doesn’t notice.

No dice.

Alastor tugs him forward with a broad hand over his ass. He kisses the tip of his nose while his wandering hand trails over the curve, and nestles between his-

“Get a goddamn room!”

“This _is_ one,” Alastor fires back. Rolling his eyes, Angel detangles from Alastor’s embrace to welcome his friends. He makes Alastor promise to greet them later, and watches as he trots over to his next victim.

“Hel-”

Vaggie groans (“Not again”) and smacks her forehead. She throws her head back and swallows the rest of her drink in one impressive go.

“-lo!”

Angel peels off in search of Cherri. Peering around the room, he spies a dazzling little number dressed like a shrink-wrapped candy cane near the kitchen island and heads over. He air kisses her on the cheek, mindful of her makeup, and gives Pentious a one-armed hug.

Cherri elbows him, grinning. “Hey, Angie. How’re ya holding up?”

He turns his head, allowing Alastor back into his line of sight. Vaggie scrunches her nose, and from this angle, it almost appears like she’s trying her hardest not to laugh. His lips curve in a contented curl.

“Better,” he admits. His heart skips as Alastor catches his eye and winks at him. “So much better."

Pentious crosses his arms, huffing. “I should hope so! If it weren’t, I’d be questioning your sanity.” He narrows his eyes at Alastor, who either ignores him or fails to even register the man on his radar. Angel banks on the latter.

Cherri chuckles. “So, you need any cream for that back he blew out?”

“We already got a remedy for that.” Pentious flushes as Angel bends down with a wicked smile. “He’s a two-hand job, if ya know what I mean.”

During this inopportune moment, Charlie joins them, face pink with exertion, or alcohol. A bit more worse for wear due to Angel’s lewd insinuations, Pentious sputters and flails as she peers at him under furrowed brows.

“Are you okay, Pentious? Is it the wine? I can get you a glass of water or some of this peppermint hot chocolate. Y’know, to help ease up on the booze. Not to be rude, but you’re already slurring.”

As Pentious launches into yet another diatribe about how he does not have a speech impediment, thank you very much for your misplaced concern, Angel grins and pinches her rosy cheek.

“Aw, is princess gettin’ buzzed?”

She beams toothily back. “Maybe. What’s in this hot chocolate, anyway? It’s great, but I can’t even taste the alcohol.” She hands the mug to Cherri, who obediently sips. She smacks her lips, then hums.

“Wow. Yeah, Angel, this stuff is insidious. Delicious, but damn.”

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Al made it. He’s subtle with poisons, I mean, peppermint schnapps.” Taking advantage of Pentious’s need for oxygen, he stage-whispers in the interim, “We don’t let Husk make drinks anymore.”

Both women shudder. “I don’t blame you,” Charlie says. Cherri solemnly nods.

That reminds him.

He tentatively places a hand on Charlie’s small shoulder. She raises a brow at the touch but shifts into it trustingly. After chewing his lip and before he loses his nerve, he quickly blurts out, “Thanks for everythin’. You, and Vaggie.”

Charlie’s eyes crinkle and gleam with recognition. During his break with Alastor, they stayed behind with Angel after the club closed, long after Pentious picked Cherri up. They took turns propping up his wet face with their shoulders and tried everything to keep his mind off his unfortunate predicament. Vaggie offered blunt but sage advice while sanding down the edges of her normally austere tone, and Charlie regaled him with cheesy jokes to pass the time. Vaggie poured them all strong drinks before they settled down in one of the booths to watch the most ridiculous porn ever created.

Looking back, it was probably exhausting for them, but they kept it up to support Angel.

“Of course, Angel,” Charlie says, resting her hand over his.

“What are friends for?”

Right, he thinks, blinking rapidly to quell the resurgence of affection and fondness he tries so hard to keep at bay. In case it overwhelms him.

What _are_ friends for?

They huddle around him and close the ranks. As Angel succumbs to the embrace, the answer floats to the forefront of his mind.

(Apparently, everything)

* * *

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas,_

_Make the Yuletide gay_

_From now on our troubles will be miles away_

Eyes peeled for his boyfriend, Alastor wanders off like a dithering fool for exactly three seconds when Vox collides into him. He instinctively lifts his hand and smacks him, only to hear Niffty shriek, “Mistletoe” over the din. His stomach plummets. For once, both villains share a green, stomach curdling expression.

“No. Absolutely not,” Alastor insists at the same time Vox shouts, “Hell fuckin’ no!”

As usual, Rosie accelerates every terse situation involving them to a fever pitch. Not one to be content with merely fanning the flames, she douses them with petrol.

“Oh, come off it,” she scoffs. “This isn’t the first time you’ve had to swap spit.”

“That was different!”

“We were backed into a corner!”

Rosie hums. “That you were. It did make for an incredible distraction. Who would’ve known how effective of a diversion it would be?” Husk hands her a fresh drink. She nods in acknowledgment. “Well, distracted enough for me to, as they say, _shoot my shot_.”

Everyone within listening radius shudders. Before they can be distracted by her unnerving smile and glassy-eyed, homicidal reminiscence, a high pitched voice squeaks, “Mistletoe!”

Rosie tuts, bringing her glass to her lips. “I wouldn’t provoke them. If I recall, Alastor sicked up immediately after.”

“Yes, because it was _vile_!”

“I’ll have ya know, dickwad, that I brush my fuckin’ teeth four times a day!”

“Liar,” Alastor coughs into his hand.

“Mistletoe!” the tiny demon repeats.

Alastor sighs. “Fine,” he bites out, to Niffty’s glee and Vox’s utter shock. He plants his body in front of Vox’s frozen one, hands on hips.

Angel arrives just in time for the show.

He mirrors Vox’s stance and tilts his head. He leans in. Confused, Vox does the same. The warm puffs of rapid breath fog over their lips as their heads inch closer. Alastor watches as Vox squeezes his eyes shut. He parts his mouth-

-then rears his head back and viciously rams his forehead into Vox’s nose.

He’s fairly sure it collided at least with cartilage. In the ensuing chaos that follows, Alastor scampers away, cackling. Vox sprints after him, cursing up a storm and pinching his bloodied nose.

Vaggie ladles another cupful of the mulled wine into her mouth, eschewing the cup altogether. Rosie and Niffty automatically lift their phones, ending their recordings (“For posterity’s sake”; “For the internet”) while Cherri uploads hers to social media. Pentious stares, aghast at the proceedings and now thoroughly inducted into their ragtag family. Husk carries on, doing what he does best: not giving a flying fuck.

Charlie nudges his arm. He accepts the mug with a grateful nod.

“Er, season’s greetings?” she attempts.

Angel sighs. “And to all a good night,” he answers with an exasperated grimace. Nevertheless, the fondness still creeps through.

Their glasses clink in commiseration.

* * *

_Here we are as in olden days,_

_Happy golden days of yore_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us_

_Gather near to us once more_

The conversations are lively and accordingly festive.

Angel sails across the room, catching snippets of them as he passes.

(“No way, princess, happy holidays and all, but not interested in joining your rehab.”

“Aw, c’mon, Husk! Aren’t you tired of drinking all the time?”

“Nein.”

“I’ll sign up, Chuck!”

“Er, thanks, Cherri, but I don’t think you need it.”)

(“Is your hat alive?”

“What? No! The holly and pine are strictly decorative!”

“Ah. Okay. Are you by chance a furry?”

“Pardon?”

“If so, d’ya think you could look this over for me and say what does and doesn’t work?”)

He finally arrives at his destination, where his boyfriend and Vox are entangled in a heated discussion. Vox seems to have stemmed the bleeding if the tissue jammed up his nose is anything to go by. For his part, Alastor’s forehead sports a red mark, but both men appear to be in solid spirits besides. Rosie ignores them, continuing her conversation with Vaggie until one of them suicidally taps her shoulder.

She spins around, fangs bared.

“What?”

It looks as if Angel arrived in the nick of time. Sighing, he ambles his way to Alastor who holds out his arm.

Delicately, Angel takes it.

* * *

“Okay, if me and the asshole were ladies, who would you pick to date?”

Rosie grimaces, and Alastor magnanimously pretends it’s not a slight.

“At gunpoint?”

His fake antlers jingle in indignation. “Ridiculous. I don’t see why you’d have to be under duress to pick the superior choice. Tell me, is this a ruse to coddle Vox’s ego?”

“Well, how about this then, Alastor. Who would _you_ pick if the choice was between Vox and Valentino?”

A long pause. Then: “At gunpoint?”

“I rest my case.”

“The fuck? You’d consider Valentino? Over me? Fuck you, dickhead!”

He huffs, still jingling. “Truth be told, I’d rather not consider either. I have what you sorely lack: standards.” He turns back to Rosie and says, in a tone leagues away from whining, “Can’t you present options that are, I don’t know, more attractive? And something other than the dreck at the bottom of our shoes?”

“I’m goin’ to fuckin’ kill ya, ya picky little shit!” Vox yells, sounding more like a stuffed toy with every passing moment.

Husk hiccups. “Yeah, like what’s-his-face, Al. The threesome guy, Sto-”

Angel’s hands fly out, spider-like. Alastor deftly knocks them away and down, anchoring his wrists with dual grips. As he corals his spitfire under control and from strangling Husk, he lightly suggests, “Might not be prudent to finish that sentence.”

Angel hisses, grappling against the bonds.

“All things considered,” he continues, pinning his boyfriend’s rather robust arms to his sides. Vox gapes.

You slept with Stolas, he mouths over Angel’s shoulder.

Piss off, Alastor mouths back.

Was he good?

Vox lifts his hands, alternating between extending a single pointer finger and all ten of his digits.

Rate?

Alastor feigns incomprehension for a beat. The cursed ménage à trois wasn’t anything to write home about, but it wasn’t exactly nausea-inducing.

But, if he were honest, witnessing the open heartache splashed across Angel’s face after the fact was devastating. Devastating enough to answer in two distinct syllables:

Ze-ro.

Vox barks out a laugh. He smirks, and may or may not have muttered, “Kiss ass.”

Alastor scribbles a mental note to end him before the year is up.

As for Angel and their relationship, well.

He wrestles with Angel’s jealousy-induced fit when a queer, but no less true, aphorism snakes through his mind.

They may not always be on the same page, but they must be willing to flip to it.

* * *

_Through the years we all will be together if the fates allow_

_Until then, we'll just have to muddle through, somehow_

This time, Alastor is prepared.

He dangles the mistletoe above the arch and bides his time. After successfully beating off a teetotaling Husk and a shockingly handsy Niffty with a literal broom, he folds his arms and leans back against the wall to resume his wait. After his second sip of mulled wine, he drums his fingers against the paint. After his third, his foot. Once he reaches the bottom of his mug, the corners of his lips tilt downwards.

Glaring up at the damned thing, he rips the mistletoe off and absconds with it, whipping his head around in the mad sprint to find his boyfriend. He rounds the corner and spots him laughing with Husk.

Angel’s ditched the sweater for something less restricting and more revealing; that is to say, more Angel Dust. It’s a slinkier number, which is the aptest description Alastor can scrounge up without driving into crude territory, and his accessories speak to the season. Risqué design choice aside, Angel looks resplendent.

He embodies his name perfectly.

Alastor droops, just a tad.

Angel appears so genuinely happy, beaming without restraint or any lingering traces of self-consciousness. He grins, and it continues to be the most beautiful sight Alastor has ever witnessed and will probably be for years, however many, to come. A bitter pang jolts through him at the sight. Maybe he and Husk would have made for a far more handsome couple, as their personalities are much more complementary than their silly little arrangement and whatever Alastor can muster up on the best of days. After all, Alastor can’t seem to ever do anything right. Perhaps it is inevitable that in time, Angel will move on and find something better.

More substantial.

Shaking his head, he steels his reserve and tucks his pride back in the grave dirt where it belongs. The bells around his antlers ring. He adjusts them and steadies to return and integrate himself into the party. Leave everything to fate, as Rosie said. If it turns out that Alastor is not destined for Angel, then, well.

The chips will fall where they may.

Feeling preternaturally small, he fingers the mistletoe in his pocket, preparing to turn away and to toss the damn thing in the refuse where it belongs, when a clear voice calls out:

“Babe!”

He jerks up at the familiar lilt.

Angel bounds over to him, grinning from ear to ear; startling celestial in its wild and sincere intensity. His eyes, fever bright with drink and cheer. Alastor’s bad one blurs at the decreased distance, then focuses again as Angel orbits closer, propelled by that untenable gravitational pull.

Angel dips a hand between his exaggerated cleavage-

-and pulls out a sprig, bundled up neatly in a red bow.

“Mistletoe?” he says, a little meek, a tad unsure. The beast in Alastor’s chest that lives alongside his beating heart answers. This time, partially because it’s Christmas, but mostly because it’s Angel, he loosens the leash. He sweeps Angel up. His arms circle Angel’s bottom, supporting him while hitching his skirt scandalously higher, as evident by the outside catcalls.

Angel dips his head down. Alastor tilts his chin up.

It’s déjà vu.

Or perhaps, it’s merely become their normal.

But it’s also soft, and yielding, and above all, warm.

It chases away the frost and banishes any lingering chill.

Alastor can shout it from the parapets. He can repeat the words until he’s blue in the face. Or he can choose not to say it altogether.

It doesn’t make the sentiment any less true.

The music carries them far away. Their foreheads brush as the frigid wind from the opened door whistles into the heated room, a chorus of “Merry Christmas, bitches” and “Oh, crumbs” reverberate in their hallway. Alastor’s antlers graze his temples.

They pay them no heed.

Time stands still, and so do they; heads bowed together as in hallowed prayer.

* * *

_Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow_

_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_

“Thanks for comin’ with me to midnight mass last night.”

“Of course, my dear!” He scratches his chin. “Can’t imagine why I felt so warm inside that church, but I suppose it’s a step up from the time I burst into flames! Ha!”

Angel rolls his eyes. He’s probably joking, but knowing Alastor, the jury’s out on that verdict. He opens his mouth to admonish him-probably-but Alastor beats him to the punch.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he murmurs, snowflake-light against his ear.

“Merry Christmas, Al,” Angel replies, leaning into him.

The twinkling lights reflect on his glasses, the lens dappled with polychromatic brilliance. Angel glides his fingers along the frames, ruffling up the tufts of hair near his ears. He removes Alastor’s glasses and places them in his pocket.

Angel prefers his dark eyes to all the lights in the world, and whispers a prayer, half blasphemous but mostly reverent, before losing himself again.

The night stretches on, beyond the sparkling lights and the muted stars overhead. Carollers trill out in clear, vibrant voices, the hymns spiraling like clarion calls towards the heavens. Nocturnal creatures lend their songs to the universal chorus, and bells chime in the distance, the marriage of sounds marking the near end of the year.

Angel rests his head on Alastor’s shoulder. He winds his arm around his waist and holds him tighter.

They watch the rest of the night unfold, and wait patiently for dawn.

All is calm.

All is bright.

_(And have yourself a Merry little Christmas, now)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Lyrics from Christina Perri's version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".
> 
> 2\. Have a wonderful Christmas/Happy Holidays, all! Time to polish off this year with some wine and sake. Cheers, prost, kanpai, cin-cin, and geonbae!
> 
> 3\. Vox’s sweater: It’s Lee Majors! Alastor’s sweater: Bye, buddy! Hope you find your dad!
> 
> 4\. Now, to hibernate


	19. Aftermath (Alastor/Angel Dust + Moxxie & Ensemble, Rated M/E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Light bondage, spanking, anal plug

Sex.

Sex is what they’re good at.

With sex, they can both pretend that nothing has happened, _much_ , and carry on with the rest of their lives without having the necessary discussion about their relationship and where it stands. Like why Alastor’s screen boasts a spiderweb’s worth of cracks. Or Angel’s newfound abhorrence to any man that so much as smiles at Alastor.

But the mornings, when all is laid bare in the naked light of dawn, are the hardest part. Alastor reaches out for Angel when he stirs and refuses to slacken his hold until he wakes fully and his rational brain reassures him that Angel won’t leave in the interim.

At least, not yet.

Part of him still deems Angel a flight risk.

Angel gets up to leave, gently extracting himself when Alastor’s arms snake out to cinch his waist. He pulls him back down, nuzzling his face against his neck.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

Most days, Angel humors him and complies.

Alastor mouths endearments in his soft freckled skin. His lashes flutter in the space along Angel’s spine and shoulder blades. He marks him, sinking his teeth in during these morning lulls; sequestered moments sandwiched between the radio show and Angel’s nightly escapades. He sucks hard before biting down again. Each sting and ache elicit a shiver and a rapturous moan.

It’s music.

Alastor coaxes the sighs from his lips. He rakes his nails down the bowstring of his spine and renders his muscles taut. After that, it delves into crude territory, depending on their position, but for now, everything is poetic.

In these stolen moments, Angel whines, exhaling through his nostrils. He squirms while sinfully connected to Alastor, in a way that robs him of sanity. He writhes, chewing those rosy lips, flush blooming under his pale skin, while the word, “Alastor” is breathed out like an admonishment.

Or a prayer.

The filthiness, the debauchery of it all sinks into his skin, staining his soul indelibly. The bestial need to conquer runs rampage, and Alastor’s thighs flex and anchor as he stakes his claim. Angel unravels beneath him. He greedily laps it up as devotion sets in and entwines with desire.

Someone once told Alastor that he fucks and fights like he has nothing to lose.

But that isn’t so true anymore, is it?

* * *

Alastor looks so exhausted lately.

Dark circles under his eyes, slumping during dinner, zoning out while watching a movie as they cuddled on the couch, the whole shebang. He yawns while pulling Angel closer. He droops, nodding in minuscule increments before finally nestling in the crook of Angel’s shoulder.

By the time the credits roll, Alastor is fast asleep, tickling Angel’s cheek with soft huffs. Huffing, he reaches over and peels Alastor’s glasses off his face. Angel lets him doze. After waking, Alastor chastises him for doing so, but he can’t help it.

Alastor looks so uncharacteristically vulnerable in repose. Angel wants nothing more than to bundle up that image and store it away for safekeeping, forever.

He snuffles.

Angel’s heart bursts.

Whatever he’s doing apparently requires a helluva lot of energy, and he needs the sleep. Angel is curious and tries his utmost to pry, but Alastor is strangely tight-lipped and reticent about the whole ordeal. The only hints are the specks of blood dotting his shirts; more than usual. Upon spending another sleepless fortnight bleaching the stains out, Alastor switches to darker colors.

 _Something_ is brewing, but Angel isn’t quite sure what.

It may have much to do with the stack of papers piled up on Alastor’s desk, surreptitiously placed under the voodoo dolls.

Either way: what irritates Angel is not those soporific, hypnotic nights, but the ones when Alastor’s attention flags when Angel yearns for it.

Namely, during sex.

* * *

Angel rides his face, chasing his orgasm into Alastor’s mouth.

He grinds his hips down, fingers carding and steering Alastor by his hair. He thrusts faster, quicker, until it builds and peaks and his thighs quake. Alastor gags.

“Fuck,” Angel gasps. He pulls out and-

 _Oh_.

Everything explodes behind his eyes.

And apparently, over Alastor’s.

Predictably, he seethes.

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” he snipes, ripping his glasses off his face.

Angel narrows his eyes as the comedown hits. “Babe, I fuckin’ told ya I was comin’!”

“Yes, but unlike you, I have a gag reflex!”

“I’m fuckin’ _sorry_ for comin’ on your glasses.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” comes the sarcastic reply.

Before, when Alastor would wake up with a hard-on, he’d ignore it and try to go back to sleep. Once in a while, he would give in and finish himself off, or so he relayed to Angel.

Now, Alastor has Angel. For better or for worse. And Angel wants nothing more than to be woken up for sex, especially with Alastor.

And punished for the day’s wrongdoings.

Now, Alastor mauls his neck.

Angel _howls_.

The television downstairs increases in volume, almost obnoxiously. Alastor grunts, and thrusts harder, slapping against Angel’s reddened flesh.

Angel chews his arm to muffle his mewl as Alastor savagely fucks into him.

The roar releases, guttural. It surprises Angel, the gut-punch to his stomach, and the reinvigoration of his previously flagging cock.

“No,” Alastor hisses, ruthlessly hunting his own pleasure. He viciously bites down on Angel’s shoulders as he comes.

Unfulfilled, Angel wears the marks with both pride and humiliation the rest of the day and well into his shift. He returns home, rebuffs Alastor’s advances, and pointedly rests on his side away from the asshole.

It’s not until the next day when he’s strapped and bound to the dining table, that he pleasantly muses that doing so might have been a mistake.

* * *

Angel once made the grave mistake of crowing, “Southern boys like me” to which Alastor rhetorically replied, “Do they, now” and proceeded to wreck him five ways to hell.

He had trouble walking for hours after.

After their altercation (understatement of the year), Angel makes sure to tiptoe around Alastor when he’s in one of his moods, and Alastor discreetly shields his screen when that fucking ex-boyfriend of his emails him. Again.

But when push comes to shove, Angel will behave like the insolent brat he is. He gives Alastor no other option when he snidely mentions how many guys he’s had in one session, or how his regulars keep pawing at him during shows. And how he insists to them that he’s available because most customers won’t bother pursuing a man who’s not.

Alastor snaps, and Angel feels all the more cathartic for it.

Others seem to view this as fundamentally wrong or unhealthy, but truth be told, it works for them.

Alastor is no saint, and neither is Angel.

* * *

Case in point, yesterday:

They were having a conversation about Husk’s penchant for languages when Angel spun on Alastor’s lap.

“How much French do ya know, actually?”

“Enough to get laid in Nice, apparently,” Husk dryly remarked from his armchair.

Alastor laughed, tugging his collar as Angel glared. He said nothing, choosing judiciously to plead the fifth, but the fool once again opened his mouth.

“The girl _and_ her brother, huh, pal?”

Alastor, were Angel not sprawled on top of him in an indecent pose, could kill the little snitch.

“That so,” Angel said with a hint of steel laden in his voice.

Alastor found himself hardening for that alone, but in retrospect, he understood how Angel interpreted that wrongly.

After the ensuing fight and makeup sex, Angel yanked him down, nose to nose, and warned him: “If ya ever try to fuck Molly or Frankie I’ll cut your dick off.”

“Ha! Is that promise or a proposal?”

Angel peered at him, a bit perturbed for wear at his enthusiasm. “Wait. Have…have ya done that before? To someone?” His voice climbed higher. “To _anyone_?”

Alastor could just eat him up.

He chortled. “My dear, a gentleman never reveals his secrets!”

Angel whined, likely in frustration.

 _That_ hardened him too. To be fair, it was probably an involuntary reaction to Angel’s bossiness. Or something.

Angel pouted, settling his body atop his. He trailed spidery fingers up Alastor’s abdomen, marching them up the path of soft hair.

“I’m better, right?” he asked quietly.

Alastor cupped his face as if gently trapping water in his palms. He tilted his head up and examined his reflection in the heterochromatic irises. Angel nuzzled and sighed into his palm.

“Of course, you are. Darling, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Despite the proximity or because of it, Angel lowered his gaze. Alastor guided his head back down to his sternum and pretended not to notice the wetness fluttering in tandem with Angel’s labored breaths. He curled his fingers in Angel’s hair. As he stroked, a warm hand encircled his wrist.

The oceanic twilight transitioned into the bleak dark of winter.

They stayed that way for a long while.

* * *

Currently:

Alastor peers over his newspaper at Angel.

“Darling, did you know that the man who’s running against Lucifer is related to Vaggie?”

His answer comes, muffled.

Angel attempts to bypass the gag to no avail. His stomach rubs against the table as his leaking cock drags on the tablecloth that Alastor insisted he drapes over the communal table. Nestled in between his freshly spanked ass: a plug that tapered into the shape and bristles of a deer’s tail. His patterned stockings cut right below his cheeks, exposing the tail to the bare elements.

If it weren’t for Alastor’s wicked handling and subsequent teasing, Angel would have come by now.

Husk stormed out earlier, muttering something about perverts, indecent acts, how it ought to be illegal to subject his eyes to Alastor’s prurient shit, and that he’d rather serve as a POW. Niffty, on the other hand, was harder to convince. She insisted on staying behind until Husk promised to buy her something or other.

Angel was a pinch close to asking him to repeat it when Alastor gave him a withering stare on top of a spanking. For his boyfriend’s delicate sake, Angel will pretend that Husk didn’t say “vibrators”.

Plural.

For someone that flaunts his own sex life in front of others, Alastor _should_ be immune to his friends’. Angel regrets not clarifying. At least if Alastor was riled up, he probably would have fucked Angel into the furniture by this point in time. But calm Alastor is an absolute sadistic nightmare, and as such, Angel writhes helplessly on their dining table, pent and plugged up and nowhere to go.

Alastor takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Well, that doesn’t matter. Iscariot’s flipping soon. That should even the odds.”

He hums. The newspaper flaps as he straightens his arms. “And Pontius is likely to wash his hands of the fiasco. Side with common sentiment, and all that jazz.”

Angel whimpers, fighting with the ropes. His whipcord muscles burn. Eventually, he settles for glaring.

“None of that, dear,” Alastor chides.

Angel vows to wipe that grin off his face as soon as he’s ungagged. It must show in his eyes because his boyfriend sets down the newspaper. He folds it methodically, the muscles in his forearms flexing. Angel hates how hard he remains.

When he finally stands up, Angel is greeted by the sizable bulge in Alastor’s trousers.

It pleases Angel that as collected as Alastor acts, he’s still not unaffected.

“My, my,” Alastor purrs, edging around the table. He rests his elbows on the clothed surface, level with Angel’s flushed face.

“Don’t we look ravishing?”

Angel growls. Saliva wets the cloth and dribbles down the corners of his mouth. He futilely writhes against the bonds. The ropes bite into his skin.

“What did we learn, dear?” Alastor sing songs.

Jack shit.

Alastor seems to cotton on to that. He sighs.

His fingers loop around the tail at the plug’s base. He wriggles it, just to be a bastard. Angel growls again.

He’s rewarded by a forceful yank.

Angel squeals as the plug pops out of his ass. He kicks out or tries to when Alastor’s hand steadies him, settling in the small of his back.

“Behave, dear, or I won’t remove the gag.”

Angel moans, bereft.

He clenches around nothing, spread wide and exposed for Alastor’s viewing pleasure. After what feels like forever, a firm cockhead lines up and nudges his empty hole.

When Alastor finally deigns to remove the gag, Angel does not disappoint.

His eyes flash as he stretches and licks the sore corners of his mouth.

“Couldn’t wait to come, daddy?” He wiggles his ass like a doe begging to be bred. “Huh. Thought you’d have more stamina on account of your attitude. But not bad, babe, because outta _everyone else_ , you’re still on top-”

It’s almost as if he doesn’t bother with lube, the way he forces and pummels in, prying Angel wide open with his thick cock.

The table legs screech on the linoleum.

It rocks under their combined weight and Alastor’s bestial thrusts. The edge gnaws into his groin as the wood creaks shamefully under their combined exertions. Angel moans as Alastor’s engorged cock stretches him. In response, Alastor forces his head back towards him and snags his lip between his teeth, nipping at the flesh as Angel comes undone.

He feels so fucking _full_.

The burn lights up Angel’s body like a funeral pyre. Incoherent babbles spill from his lips. With a grunt, Alastor yanks out of him, the sudden vacuum of emptiness eclipsing the sharp, painful twinge.

Lord help him, Alastor tries his best to curb his jealousy. And Angel does all he can to stoke it.

Clemency?

Nah.

“You can come when you learn to behave,” comes the sibilant hiss before the plug re-enters him with a slick squelch.

Angel sobs.

Penance, he thinks as Alastor rains stinging blows on his ass, jostling the plug and driving it past his prostate.

That’s one word for it.

* * *

He sighs.

Moxxie doesn’t know how he keeps getting roped into things like this.

One minute, he’s micromanaging Blitzo and _calmly_ discussing Loona’s intern duties, and the next minute, he’s, well, _here_.

Whatever the heck here is.

He covertly glances around.

It would be borderline suicidal to linger too long on the people-and that’s putting it mildly-milling about in his co-worker’s backyard. The man with the ostentatious hat gesticulates wildly at Alastor’s other roommate, who yawns without bothering to cover his maw. The girl that Lucifer’s daughter is dating greets Millie with a resigned hello. The sneering man donning a bifurcated eye bares his teeth in Alastor’s general direction.

Moxxie sighs again.

His co-worker. It’s why he’s here and knee-deep in this mess in the first place. He rues the earlier hour when he answered the incoming call.

“I need advice,” came the mellifluous voice. He didn’t bother elaborating, so Millie helpfully filled in the blanks.

“He’s going to propose soon,” she mouthed, “to Angel Dust.”

“Who _else_ would he-yes, hello? We’ll be right over, sir,” he yammered before hanging up. Millie squealed, clapping her hands. A veritable cupid, she talked his ear off the whole ride. Or so he’d hoped, after witnessing all of this.

“Where’s Rosie?”

Moxxie startles as the scarred man, Angel’s manager and the owner of the television station, seemingly teleports next to Alastor’s side. His co-worker in question pauses at the table laden with snacks, scratching his chin. He plucks up a bag of chips.

“She’ll be here after the dissection. It’s taking a bit longer than usual due to the victims’ excessive bloating.”

Moxxie narrows his eyes, but survival instinct takes over. He says nothing.

“Whatever. So, how many jobs have ya been doin’ for Luci? Heard he’s runnin’ ya ragged. How much is he payin’ ya?”

He gifts Vox a withering look. The man deftly dodges it behind a rude gesture.

“I’m not gracing that with an answer,” he sniffs. He pinches the bag open.

Vox snatches it. Or tries to. Alastor grabs his wrist and manipulates it to funnel the chips into his mouth. Vox elbows him.

And Alastor, well, retaliates.

“Ow! What the fuck? You _bit_ me!”

“You deserved it.”

“Ro-goddammit!” He frantically whips his head around. He settles on Millie after Vaggie curls her lips.

“You!” he shouts, pointing at her. “He _bit_ me!”

Moxxie does enjoy Alastor’s company, at least on a surface level. As a co-worker and, dare he say it, friend, he’s not the absolute worst (that title belongs to Blitzo). But the man is as unhinged as a barrel of monkeys, and from what he’s witnessed since entering this house, the company that he keeps is all not too far off the mark.

Alastor sneers as Vox bitches to Rosie’s proxy. “I don’t even know why he’s here,” he hisses, sending a well-aimed stink eye to Vox’s back. “He’s not even married, or in a relationship, and I doubt that there’s anyone out there who suffers enough brain damage to date him,” he continues loudly.

He receives an automatic middle finger back for his trouble.

“Dude’s here for the free food,” Husk says, sagely. He burps. “Plus, it ain’t like I was successful with Niff. She’s only started circling back around the idea. I mean, give a guy a break, right? Pass out naked only twice in front of her parents with a party horn lodged in your ass, and all of a sudden you’re the bad guy! Shit, you’d think that I set the goddamn house on fire from the looks on their faces. Sheesh.”

Alastor and Moxxie blink. They share a grimace, whereupon the word, “right” escapes Alastor’s mouth, with an emphasis and elongation on the vowel.

“Yeah, okay, buddy,” Vox says in a pathetic attempt at commiseration. Pentious blankly stares. Vaggie’s eye twitches. Millie giggles.

Moxxie rubs his forehead.

“What…what exactly is this about, sir? Cold feet? Second thoughts?”

“Everything,” Alastor admits.

Before anyone can respond, he hurriedly segues into: “Maybe I shouldn’t go through with this, after all! Perhaps Angel and I can work out an arrangement. Safeguards! You know, like a preliminary engagement. A trial period of sorts. To test the waters! Gauge the depths before doing the deep dive.”

Moxxie’s headache returns with surprising force. “A preliminary engagement?” he squeaks, voice reaching impressive heights.

“Are you taking the piss?”

Someone gurgles as if choking on a drink.

“Did you just compare being engaged to drowning.”

“What in the flyin’ fuck is _wrong_ with ya?”

The men and Vaggie gawk at him like he grew two heads. Alastor’s smile grows strained as they continue to gape. In a last-ditch attempt, he turns to Millie, who shrugs.

“Sounds practical to me,” she says.

“What? No!” Moxxie shrieks, flailing. “You can’t just-there’s no such thing as a _preliminary_ engagement! It’s all or nothing! Who taught you these things?”

Alastor sniffs. “No one. I was gifted a book, however-”

“And did the book inform you on how suicidal that would be?”

“Point taken.” He scrunches his nose, shoving his glasses up the bridge of it. “I suppose I just thought…well, that’s neither here nor there. I’m-this is all rather new to me, you see.”

He wrings his hands, and guilt worms through Moxxie’s guts. Abashed, he lowers his eyes.

The ensuing silence is dense and profound.

With no answer forthcoming, Alastor clears his throat. “Any salient advice?”

“Sure. Don’t bitch out.”

He whirls on Vox, baring his teeth. “Not _you_ , you buffoon. Who invited you, anyway? Was it Rosie? Because so help me go-”

Vaggie cuts in. “Al, why don’t you just ask Angel if he wants to get married? Maybe that’ll assuage, I dunno, something.”

He winces. “He does. We’ve…discussed it before. In less than stellar circumstances.”

“So what are you worried about?”

There’s a pregnant pause. Then:

“What if he changes his mind? What if he says no?”

 _What if I’m not worthy_ , reads the blank space between the lines.

Moxxie is flung backward in time to his own proposal, years ago. Knots replaced the nerves in his stomach. He couldn’t eat properly for a week leading up to it. He constantly ran through the worst-case scenarios in his head so frequently that he almost passed out at the actual engagement dinner due to lack of sleep.

None of them answer.

If they were a more placating group, then they might have showered him in platitudes and affirmations. But that’s not how things, or they, operate.

That’s not how life does.

“Can’t hurt to try,” comes the reply from the best of them, and of course it’s Millie.

Alastor nods but doesn’t seem to hear or register the answer. He appears too absorbed in his own grievances and mired in abyssal worry. It’s an odd, foreign look on him, but strangely reassuring. Perhaps Moxxie’s co-worker has more fissures in his armor than previously observed.

Perhaps he’s more human than any of them realized.

“And what should I wear?”

The conversational turnabouts will probably contribute to Moxxie’s early demise.

“ _What_?”

“Wear the suit ya wore to Carl’s funeral.”

Alastor wrinkles his nose. “No, you idiot. That’s a funeral suit. For _wakes_. I can’t wear any of my mourning suits to propose.”

“How many funeral-never mind, what I don’t know won’t kill me, ignorance is bliss, etcetera.”

“Wait.” Pentious holds up a hand. “Carl? Carl’s dead? How?”

Alastor and Vox exchange suspiciously guilty looks.

“He fell,” Alastor says, a touch too quickly.

“On a knife,” Vox helpfully supplies.

Pentious slits his eyes. “How peculiar.”

“You fuckers are insane,” Husk declares.

“Not as far off the mark as we’d like,” Alastor cheerfully admits, verbalizing Moxxie’s earlier observation.

“Speak for yourself, shitbird,” Vox mutters. “I’m gonna whack you in the sack one of these days.”

“There we go again with your preoccupation with my phallus.” He leans forward, fangs bared. “Maybe one day I’ll let you look at it.”

Vox hastily makes the sign of the cross. “Don’t ya put that evil on me, dick- _asshole_! And I already know what it looks like! The whole goddamn city knows what your horse dick looks like!”

“I took off work for this,” Vaggie says, massaging her temples.

“Anyway, like I was fuckin’ sayin’, assface, Luci might be puttin’ change in your pocket, but ya know what stance he’s takin’ right?”

“I presume the opposite of all the ones his opponent supports.”

“Yeah, dumbass. One of them happens to be against your upcoming-if the fucker actually says yes-marriage.”

Alastor goes stock-still. He blinks slowly as Vox’s assertion soaks in. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

Moxxie assumes that most of them have no choice but to vote for Lucifer since present company is all connected in some way or another to the conniving businessman. Secretly, he’d always planned on voting against, but in this current climate, it would be unwise to vocalize his position.

The authorities _did_ recently discover the last two critics submerged just off the docks the other day.

Alastor hums. He clicks his tongue. “Well, that puts quite a wrench in my plans! Ah, well. C'est la vie.” He makes a show of dusting off his hands. “Time to switch gears, I suppose!”

Vox gawks. “Wait. Don’t tell me that you’re dumb enough to campaign against Lucifer and vote for his opponent?”

“What I _am_ planning on is getting married,” he snaps. “And I’m not waiting years to do so.”

“That’s fuckin’ suicide at this point! Goddammit, I’m tellin’ Rosie!”

Moxxie shudders.

The woman is a formidable force, from what he remembers of their brief introduction at the Christmas party. He’s heard of her, and who hasn’t? Her reputation, and Frankie’s, precedes them. She’s almost as infamous as Alastor, and decidedly not in a matronly, humanitarian sort of way. In fact, it’s completely and utterly the opposite.

Thankfully, Vaggie intervenes. “I’ll talk to Charlie, Al. Maybe she can talk some sense into her dad.”

And just like that, Alastor’s good cheer returns. He beams. “Thank you, my dear! It would be such a senseless waste of time and lives! If that can be avoided, then all the more swell!”

What.

Moxxie unhinges his jaw. He lifts a finger, but a stern look and pointed cough from his wife dissuade him of that notion. He slowly lowers it.

“Better make it official before he leaves ya and you got no choice but to sling dick,” Vox snipes.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

As they launch into another round of bickering, Vaggie sidles up to him. Her arms are crossed, and her face, puckered in thought. A moment passes. Over time, the tension in her shoulders releases.

She sighs. “I know his heart-if he possesses one-is in the right place. And I’m sure he loves Angel, and whatever. But do you really think that they can make it work? Last? I mean, marriage is a helluva commitment.”

Moxxie stares at her. Plainly etched in the wrinkles in her brow is concern. She adjusts her eyepatch. Moxxie doesn’t know her well enough to know if doing so is a nervous tic or not. Instead, he lets the moment wash over them before he speaks.

“I do,” spills from his lips. It’s tinged with stupid, honest hope. “I think that most people can manage to make it work, if they roll up their sleeves and not mind some mess, here and there. And, if you pardon my, well, _moxie_ , I’d like to believe that the both of them, being who they are, will do their best.”

He surveys the rowdy ruckus from afar.

“And that’s more than anyone can ask for, really, in life.”

In the distance, the two men come to near blows.

Pentious clumsily manhandles Vox while Husk attempts to hold Alastor back. Pentious’s hat topples to the ground as Vox viciously elbows him. Alastor bares his teeth like an anaconda, or an alligator, and sinks them into Husk’s arm (“Not again, fuck!”). He yelps, fervently smacking the side of Alastor’s head. To no relief. Alastor holds fast until someone-definitely not Moxxie’s wife, heaven forbid-punches him in the groin.

Moxxie valiantly resists the urge to introduce his face to his palm. He turns to Vaggie and is struck dumb by the tentative smile gracing her face. From this angle, with her features less strained and austere, she looks halfway celestial.

“Yeah,” she says, with an air of finality.

“That makes sense.”

Moxxie smiles, clasping his hands behind his back.

As if sense had anything to do with it.

* * *

The guests, sans Moxxie, shuffle inside for much-needed libations.

Millie dawdles for a short while but then decides to nip in the house for some wine and warmth. Alastor doesn’t blame her. Rosie will arrive soon, which guarantees a blistering cold front.

After pecking her husband on the cheek, Millie leaves for toastier pastures.

Only Alastor and Moxxie remain outside.

It’s a bit awkward at first.

It always is with his neurotic little co-worker, but they’ve learned to adapt. The two have known each other for years, and Alastor can’t begrudge Moxxie for his wariness after all he’s been privy to.

To be fair, the time when Alastor was caught red-handed, _literally_ , it wasn’t wholly his fault.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he shouted as the man’s busted artery sprayed a geyser onto his face.

His co-worker promptly took a deep breath, tilted his head back, and screamed.

If Alastor didn’t scramble forward and practically assault Moxxie, slathering them both in fluids in the process, someone with a higher regard for protocol might have come running. The ensuing chaos was a rather messy and slippery affair. Thankfully, Moxxie possessed more sense than virtue, and they both agreed to sweep it under the rug.

In Alastor’s case, literally.

If the rug was a boat rocking miles away on the turbulent skin of the ocean.

In any case, he doesn’t care to relive it. And apparently, from Moxxie’s fidgeting and furtive glances to the nearest exit, neither does he.

So it comes as a surprise when his diminutive companion is the first to break the ice.

“Sir,” he begins, tentatively, “with all due respect, I think you’re taking this all out of proportion.”

Alastor admires the sheer temerity if nothing else. “How so?”

Moxxie clears his throat. Twin spots dot the apples of his cheeks, but Alastor can’t discern if that particular malady materialized with the evening’s chill or the chaotic events.

“If I may be so bold, sir, erm, _Alastor_ ,” he corrects, “I don’t believe that you have anything to worry about.”

A wild wind whips past them, and Moxxie takes an unconscious step to the side. His arm brushes against Alastor’s. It seeps through their jackets, a burgeoning warmth. The touch beats back the frost, a reprieve from the gale lashing at their backs.

The moon appears gradually; a thin sliver in a deserted sky.

“Everyone can see how much he loves you. And truth be told, no one is really ready for marriage. It’s one of those things. Crumbs, I sure as heck wasn’t. And you know me, sir. I like to prepare for everything.”

That earns a chuckle from Alastor.

“Yes. Yes, you do,” he agrees, fondness creeping into his voice.

He does, too.

And he thinks of Angel, the antithesis of that-of _them_ -whose capricious whims change with the tides.

Moxxie prods further. “I think you just need a gentle reminder. Everyone does, now and then.”

Alastor furrows his brow. He tilts his head. “A reminder? For what?”

Moxxie smiles. He shoves his hands in his pockets and slowly exhales.

“Faith.”

Ah.

They watch the leaves spiral up and up until they reach their apogee, whereupon they burst and scatter away into parts unknown. The rest of the party joins them, ruddy with drink and cheer. They all huddle together, observing the final vestiges of daylight submitting to the night.

They toast to the coming year.

Once for good tidings.

And once more.

For luck.

* * *

Sex.

Sex is what they’re good at.

Still, inevitably, their egos clash and boil over into a tiff or two.

But it doesn’t matter. Alastor has exhausted his threshold of platitudes and aphorisms, and all the empty well wishes of faux sincerity that constitute the hallmark of mawkish greeting cards.

Sex is what they’re good at, but Alastor banks on so much more.

Angel straddles him, eyes aglow with mischief.

“Still mad at me for jizzin’ on your glasses?”

Alastor snorts. “Well, you did clean it off, dear. With your talented tongue.”

“Yes, I did,” he sasses back. Alastor’s heart skips, as always, at his brazenness. He gives Angel’s ass a forceful squeeze.

“Behave, and I’ll let you ride my face again.”

Angel’s thighs flex around his sides, tightening around his midsection. Alastor’s hands instinctively fly to his hips. They trail down the pale skin. His nails leave sinuous, winding lines before roaming back up again.

Exhaustion renders him breathless.

Gazing up at Angel, more so.

His breathing evens out. Alastor doesn’t remember falling asleep until his frames gently drag across his cheeks. He starts. His legs kick involuntarily, the muscles fibers twitching. When his eyes shoot open, it’s to pitch blackness and a warm body tucked against his side.

“Sleep, Al. I got ya,” floats the whisper near his ear.

It’s difficult to answer when his heart is lodged halfway up his throat. He places his palm over Angel’s chest.

The steady beat lulls him to sleep.

* * *

Whether Alastor is foolish or not is up to fate.

And, as fate allows him to press his lips against Angel’s, he privately thinks that he has been gifted the lion’s share of the bargain.

Alastor is, without a doubt, the luckiest man in the world, and he would not trade it for everything.

“Darling?”

Angel yawns, eyes muzzy with sleep, and reaches up to cradle his face. “Yeah?”

“What do you say to dinner tomorrow night?”

An easy grin breaks across his face. It brightens the room, slices through the aquatic evening gloom, and rends Alastor’s thudding, tympanic heart.

“I’d say, ‘sure, baby’ but ya knew that already. I’ll text Vox to give me the night off.”

“Not necessary, sweetheart. I’ve already informed him.”

Alastor leans in. He kisses the befuddled look from Angel’s face.

Sex.

One of the more inconsequential things in his surreal life. It bears repeating: it is what they’re good at.

But Alastor knows. They are capable of so, so much more.

And for the first time in his life, he’s willing to take that terrifying leap.

(Faith)

Nowadays, he’s plagued with maddening glimpses. Those infinite, galactic possibilities.

The maybes; the what-ifs.

Drowsy, quotidian mornings, and gold bands glittering in the dawn glow. A child’s laugh, less like the tinkling of bells and more an unselfconsciousness bray. Wrinkles framed by greying hair and chiseled in a face still so guileless.

Angel falls asleep on his arm.

He can’t feel his hand, and it’s pins and needles all the way down, but Alastor doesn’t move an inch.

Instead, he waits out the numbness in the dark.

And lets Angel dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Alastor: I did not call an impromptu emergency bitchfest to air my grievances about proposing to the one good thing that’s happened to me in years
> 
> Narrator: he did
> 
> 2\. Sorry about the lag. Did you know that lambs can chew through a Nintendo Switch charger (that doubles as a laptop one)? Neither did I.


	20. Pig (Alastor & Angel + Fat Nuggets, Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a memory, buried deep, but Angel has long since dismissed it. Until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Discussion of animal cruelty, discussion of animal welfare and euthanasia

Like the consummate asshole that he is, his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend dumps the piglet on their doorstep.

On Angel’s birthday, of all fucking days.

Angel has no idea what to do.

He railed at the dick two days ago while getting railed himself. Angel nailed the asshole trying to whip off the condom during said sex, days before the little cheater was meant to receive his updated STD results, and shoved him so hard off the bed, his ankle twisted. He packed up in record time, saluting with one finger. Reflecting back, that shithead was a nasty piece of work.

Staring at the half-dead creature on his doorstep, Angel reconsiders dating at all. He briefly wonders how long his last streak of celibacy was, and if he could beat it.

The pig snuffles. Its feeble chest rises minutely. Then falls. Hardly breathing himself, Angel’s own heart constricts as he hovers a shaky hand over its inert, defenseless body.

His palm touches ice. Its body is so cold it feels _wet_.

Angel panics. In order, he frantically dials Molly, Cherri, Charlie, Vaggie. Then: Vox, Frankie, and finally, Husk.

No one answers. His fingers tremble as they hover over the last possible contact. Only after Angel exploits every other possible avenue does he call Alastor.

Lo and behold, his roommate answers.

“Angel? What’s wrong? Is the house on fire again?”

Angel is taken aback, then dragged for another couple of miles by the stirrups.

“What the fuck do ya mean by _again_?”

“Ah. Is this about rent?”

“Al, I ain’t Husk.”

He laughs. Angel’s stomach flip-flops. It’s just as mellifluous as on the radio show that Angel listens to, at this point, religiously. He can’t pinpoint when he first started, but all he is aware of is that he is just a slave to Alastor’s show as he was to PCP.

“Okay, dear. I’ll bite. What’s troubling you?”

Angel gulps in a shaky breath. Then it all rushes out.

“I have a half-dead piglet now because my goddamn ex, who I ain’t datin’ no more, dropped this guy at our door and he ain’t movin’ much and he’s so goddamn small, and I think they’re supposed to be pink but he’s almost blue and fuckin’ freezin’ and I think he’s goin’ to die.”

It comes out in a frantic, emetic deluge: the tears and the worry and helplessness from someone ill-equipped to save a small creature when they had enough trouble aiding themselves. Angel’s knees buckle. Having whipped off his shirt in a pathetic attempt to warm the barely breathing creature, he rocks the dying animal against his chest. The phone balances precariously between his shoulder and his ear. There’s a brief pause. Angel uses it to breathe. After an extended beat, he assumes Alastor hung up.

Then: “Have you purchased colostrum?”

Relief washes over him. “What the fuck is that?”

A huff. “It’s what you give to orphaned newborn piglets the first twenty to forty-eight hours. Usually, it’s supplemented through the sow’s milk, but if the mother passed while or after farrowing, you’ll have to provide it yourself.”

“An’ where the fuck do ya buy it?”

He sounds hysterical, he knows. But he can’t tell if the pig is still moving with all his nervous rocking, and no warmth seeps through his shirt. He sets the pig down on the couch. He unfolds the shirt gingerly, just to check if the chest is still rising. Alastor drawls something about a livestock store, located somewhere along the outskirts of the city, but the heartbeat in Angel’s ears drowns most of his spiel out. He soothes the tiny, barrel chest. Its ribs feel like a ladder of matches held together by whispery skin. His finger traces each fragile rung.

Angel sobs as he collapses to the floor.

Against all odds, it’s still breathing.

“Can ya please come help me?”

He waits for the inevitable “no”.

It doesn’t come.

A sigh, then, “Fine. Are you at the house?”

Angel could kiss him.

* * *

He rocks the piglet in his arms. Nerves jangling, he switches on the radio.

As always, it’s set to Alastor’s station.

“Apologies, dear listeners. Today, I’m to snip my show short! It looks like I’m needed to help unravel a snafu and quite the porcine problem at that! So this is your Radio Demon, bidding you adieu for the evening! As always, dear listeners, good night and _good luck_.”

His head throbs. Angel lies back on his bed, tucking in his limbs in a last-ditch attempt to conserve heat. Periodically, he peels back the blankets to check if it’s working, but the piglet is glacial to the touch. His fingers itch for a cigarette or some painkillers. Washed down with a bottle of wine. He vainly tried to guzzle some vodka in the living room, but it ended up all over the floor.

Angel becomes so lost in that jumbled mire, he nearly doesn’t register the knock.

Without preamble, Alastor walks inside.

He cajoles Angel into standing up and handing him the bundle. His wobbly knees knock together as Alastor shepherds him to the bathroom, muttering something or other about hypothermia and heat. When they reach the shower, Angel’s back hits the wall. He sinks to the floor. Alastor bustles about before dropping to his knees.

There are so many things that Angel doesn’t know about Alastor.

Like: does he sing in the shower? Does he sing, period? Does he have any hobbies? Is he single? Why doesn’t he bring anyone back to the house?

Husk once said something along the lines of him not eating where he shits or whatever, which in retrospect explains the privacy.

“If Al ever brings home someone, then we’ll know it’s legit,” he said. A sour miasma crept into Angel’s stomach at the frank statement. He just couldn’t imagine Alastor with anyone else.

Still.

Who does he think of, in those reclusive nighttime hours, when he strokes himself off?

Those are the thoughts that plague him at night when his mind and hands wander. Y’know, silly, anodyne things like that.

Angel flushes like a forest fire. Thankfully, Alastor is too preoccupied with the piglet to notice.

“Listen to me, Angel. Grab a bucket, and fill it with warm water. We need to stimulate blood flow to keep him warm.”

He rolls up his sleeves. Angel distantly stares at the muscles in his forearms. He nods as Alastor leaves to grab the heater and a few towels from his closet. Angel rummages in the cabinets for a shallow bucket. He gets lucky when he remembers one under the sink, which was used to hold all their cleaning supplies that Angel never touches. Humming a lullaby, he draws the water and fills the bucket.

Alastor returns on silent feet. Thoughts spiraling and clogging in his head, he doesn’t realize until Alastor touches the small of his back. Startled, he jolts. The touch is a livewire. Goosebumps form and prickle under the brief, intimate gesture.

Then, like a daydream, it’s gone.

Alastor kneels next to him. Carefully, he unfolds Angel’s shirt from around the animal and cradles the unresponsive piglet before lowering it into the water.

“What if he doesn’t make it?”

Alastor wipes his hands on his pressed trousers before dipping one into the water to support the pig’s head. Angel openly gawks at the uncharacteristic gesture.

“Then, it would be a mercy.”

Alastor scoops water with the other hand. He tilts it over its trunk, the water streaming between the spaces in his fingers. Angel greedily devours everything. His line of sight cascades to the sloping curve of Alastor’s neck, where taut muscles flex with unseen tension. They travel down strong forearms that taper into the narrow angles of his wrist. Coarse tufts of dark hair dot the space just above his knuckles. Long fingers drip and spoon water onto the pig’s speckled belly.

 _Alastor_ , his mind whispers, committing the image to memory.

The Radio Demon.

Their schedules rarely allow them to collide, but without fail, Alastor leaves a plastic container packed with dinner leftovers for Angel to eat before-but usually after-work. He stumbles home drunk after Vox closes up, having snuck in shots between his turns on stage. Then, Angel will open the fridge, and voila.

 _Angel_ , declares the label in neat handwriting.

Alastor knows his legal name, due to the rental agreement and the other bills that he is responsible for. But he never calls him anything but his stage alias. Sometimes, in his weakest moments, he wonders what it’ll sound like if it ever travels past those upturned lips.

_An-tho-ny._

In that smooth, sex-slick, radio-announcer voice.

Angel takes a cold shower after most of those trivial thoughts. He can’t afford to muddy the waters even further. All that ever did was cause more strife than necessary. Cases in point: Valentino and Travis. Once, when he was wasted off his ass, he almost, _almost_ hooked up with Husk. But, for some reason, at the last second and compelled by a queer thought, he slammed his foot on the brakes. That train never left the station.

It was only after he extricated himself from that situation did his mind slow down enough to register the thought that caused him pause.

_What would Alastor think?_

What Angel doesn’t want to admit: if he slept with Husk, it might ruin his chances, slim and non-existent as they may be, with Alastor.

Forever.

What a fucking pipe dream, he thinks. But even now, his gaze lingers on those bared forearms and sweeps up to the determined jut of his jaw. The quiet splashing diverts his attention back down to the piglet floating in the water.

Alastor continues, breaking his trance. “You know, my father used to tell me never to waste bullets.” The statement is breezy and too blithe for it to be anything but grave. A weight settles around Angel’s shoulders, like chains. His stomach plummets.

“But this case is different.”

The implication, the insinuating gall of it mars his matter-of-fact manner. Alastor may try to affect a viscous shroud of mystery and demur any bald accusations to the contrary, but Angel knows a predator when he sees one. There’s oil under his fingers and the hint of steel. And even further, buried within dated soil hidden under that, is the acrid effluvium of decaying flesh.

A stark memory of scripture explodes inside his mind. In the unwarranted cranial deluge that follows, Angel recalls the testaments. And its supposed anecdotes of mercy.

He adamantly refutes that reality.

“Can’t…can’t we give him a chance? See if he gets better?”

Alastor sighs. He wetly scratches his nape, staring at Angel with unfathomable eyes. Angel’s fingers twitch. Everything in him aches something fierce to pluck those glasses from his face, just to see what else the glare hides.

“Fine. Shall we camp out, then? See if he lasts the night?”

It bears repeating: Angel could kiss him.

* * *

His roommate confuses him.

He knows next to nil about Alastor.

When they were first introduced, Angel was off his gourd on dust and proposed paying rent with his assets, and as such, he couldn’t recall all the specifics. What he does know: Alastor works as a well-loved radio host for their city and spends the majority of his time nowhere near their house, but still manages to fix every leak and architectural failure that inevitably crops up overnight. He’s close with Husk and another broad that occasionally comes around, but keeps Angel at arm’s length. He can count on one hand how many times Alastor and he were in the same room. Usually, they exist only to pass each other, like two ships in the night.

Or two strangers, constantly orbiting around each other, separated by polar pulls.

He sings to the piglet now, pulling him out of the water and drying him off in towels before burrito-ing the small creature in a fluffier one. He repeats the actions with an adroitness that suggests years of practice. Unfold, dunk, dry, bundle. Unwittingly serenading Angel all the while.

Angel can, and does, listen to that all day.

During a break in the song:

“So, uh, how do ya know all this?”

Alastor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know,” he says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, “my uncle and ‘em owned a farm not far from my grandparents’ house. Pigs, mainly, if you can believe it.”

Angel chuckles. It’s a brief reprieve from the bleakness. “My dad told me to never trust a pig farmer. That’s where they dump the bodies. ‘Cept the teeth.”

Alastor grins. His canines gleam, remarkably pointed under the bathroom florescence. “Precisely. They don’t digest those as well.”

Angel averts his eyes. It’s infinitely easier that way, and less blinding.

“Anyway, it was up to me to euthanize the lame ones. The ones that had a slim to no chance of survival.”

“Why you?”

“It builds character,” comes the deadpan. He shrugs. “Truthfully, it was either me or my cousin, and let’s just say that my cousin liked to, well, _play_ with his food before consumption.”

A cold needle pierces Angel’s skin and threads down his spine. “He…what?”

“It’s just as dreadful as implied, my dear. I don’t think I’ll spell it out for you, lest you have a weak constitution. Save you the nightmares if this stalwart swine survives.”

“Boy,” he automatically corrects. “The piglet’s a boy.”

Alastor hums. “Of course. Anyway, it was up to me to play executioner. I did get rather decent at delivering the terminating blows, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Blows?” Nausea claws up his esophagus. Angel breathes heavily through his nose to mitigate the most of it.

“Ah. Blunt force trauma,” he explains. He affects a comical, gruff voice in an accent that Angel can’t quite place. “We don’t waste bullets on babies, Al! You use the pipe, and nothin’ else!”

It’s so blasé, the way he describes his childhood trauma. As if it weren’t borderline abusive and clinically insane.

“That’s fucked up, Al.”

He laughs, quietly. Mirthlessly. “Is it?”

They let the rhetorical question slide thickly past. Something in Angel’s chest screams out. For what, he’s unsure. He reaches out, tentatively. But due to the mental entrenchment based on previous experiences, he lowers his hand and safely brings it back to himself.

Following the charged silence, he attempts to steer the conversation towards a more familiar and light-hearted subject.

“Ya know, my dick don’t discriminate.”

Well, light-hearted for _him_ , that is.

To his delight, Alastor snorts. “That’s nice.”

“After we save the piggie, maybe ya can come to my room. Y’know. So I can thank ya properly.”

“Ha! No, thanks,” he demurs. “I have enough on my plate, and sleeping with roommates who actually pay rent is not on my list of priorities.”

Angel laughs. “Bully for you, then.”

“You know, when we first met, I believe you offered me fellatio. I declined.”

“Why? Is your dick small or what? Like I said, I don’t discriminate.”

Alastor makes a noncommittal noise. Angel takes it to mean that it’s probably average, or smaller. He shrugs. Size never bothered him then, and it doesn’t now.

For some reason, even more so.

“So, Husk told me ya used to have dreads.”

As he rubs the piglet’s back, Alastor releases a long-suffering sigh.

“ _Quelle surprise_. Time to kill the roommate. He’s had a decent run.” Nevertheless, he quirks his lips. “Besides, that was a long time ago. I prefer shorter cuts now. Much more manageable and easier to clean.”

Angel chuckles. “Oh, yeah, I had long hair too, back in the day. But after gettin’ baby batter on it for like, the fifth time, ya start gettin’ sick of shampooin’.”

“May I ask: are you always this crude?”

“Born and bred, baby.”

“That does explain a lot.”

“Anyway, dreads! That’s sexy. But so’s your style now.” He bats his eyes. “I love me a guy who can work both.”

“Oh, do you?”

If Angel didn’t know better, he’d have thought Alastor was actually flirting with him. He smiles, but it drops as his gaze lowers to the bucket. Alastor’s keen eyes track it. He sighs.

“If he dies, Angel,” he begins, before backtracking. “That’s life, unfortunately. Nature is a vicious, violent beast.”

Sudden rage consumes him.

“Fuck that!”

It’s desperate, it’s over the top, but fury breeds contempt. It boils over like a fervid wildfire, leaving nothing but desolation in its wake. His stomach flares.

He languishes in its bite.

“If somethin’ this innocent dies, when a shitload of evil fucks get to live, then God has a lot to fuckin’ answer for!”

Oh.

_Despair._

That’s another word for it.

It rips apart his chest and sinks its fangs into his heart. Or the tattered remains of it.

Why should something like this be condemned to death, according to the Bible, when humans get away with murder and every other heinous act there is?

How is that fair?

At this juncture, it’s all rhetorical and there are no answers.

“It’s not that simple, Angel.”

“Why can’t it be?” is the violent volley back.

Alastor appears taken aback for once, at least at the vehemence. He opens his mouth, but Angel refuses to let up.

“For once, why can’t it be?”

When his mother died, the priest at her funeral asked him if he had any prayers left for God.

No, he answered. Just a question.

 _How dare you_?

It rolls off him in rippling currents. The rage, yes.

But the sorrow, too.

He pulls his legs closer to his body. Pain lances along his temple and travels in serrated bursts down to the base of his skull. Somewhere, beyond the ache, notes string together. They form a symphonic skeleton, carving up the quiet with melodious cadence. Over time, the music drowns out the pain.

Its song, a balm.

“Okay,” a voice says. A warm, wet palm closes over his. Angel startles.

“Okay,” Alastor repeats. The condensation trapped in the bathroom fogs up his glasses and shields his eyes. In that strange, liminal moment, Angel wants nothing else but to peel the frames off just for a glimpse of those dark eyes. And if there is any possible way to comprehend what Alastor sees, right now, in him; besieged by grief and the lyrical susurration of running water.

“If you say so.”

Angel’s lip trembles. He leans into the touch and presses his forehead against Alastor’s bicep.

In another unprecedented move, his roommate lets him.

* * *

After bundling the piglet for the fifth time, Alastor breaks the silence.

“You’re right,” he says. He motions for Angel to hand him a towel. “In all transparency, I abhorred that job. Humans are much easier to-”

He stops abruptly. He coughs, then rewinds. “What I mean to say is that I agree with you wholeheartedly. Now, I may not be a stellar example of a human being, but I do have a set of morals.”

At Angel’s raised brow, he clarifies: “Of a sort.”

His eyes appear overcast as he hands off the piglet to Angel. Immediately, he blinks it away. As if it never occurred. What’s writ large on his face isn’t deceit. Rather, it’s the clear eyes of someone that doesn’t hold the luxury of second-guessing himself. The surety and pragmatism both frightens and thrills him.

As usual, the blood rushes from his face to below his belt. Angel squirms shamefully.

Up close, Alastor’s lashes are so thick. The tips curl up against the insides of his glasses and fan outward. His eyes search Angel’s prying ones. They soften at whatever they find there.

Angel melts.

He leans forward, and perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but he imagines that Alastor does too. He tilts his head. A nebulous breath escapes his lips, another warm puff of air replaces it, and-

-the piglet squeals.

Angel breaks away. He sobs, half in disbelief and half in hope. He feels preternaturally weightless.

 _Light_.

“He’s alive,” he chokes out. He rubs the sting from his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he opens them, Alastor smiles softly at him.

“So he is.”

Again, like the last time when he watched Alastor typing on his laptop, Angel is discombobulated. The tension between them, electric. Disquietous. Taut enough to snap.

Under the weight of what, he’s unsure.

All he knows is that whatever it is, it’s spellbinding.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Alastor says, averting his eyes. “Happy birthday, Angel.”

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Thanks, Al,” he eventually stutters out.

He places a hand on the squirming bundle in Angel’s lap. “If you ask me, and you didn’t, so I hope this doesn’t seem too forward of me, but I hope you find someone worthy to share today with. In fact, I’m positive you will.”

Angel is usually never at a loss for words. He curses this momentary laconic lapse. Why he cannot conjure the words past the lump in his throat at this crucial moment is stratospherically beyond him.

Instead, he gulps.

Again, the air between them crackles, fraught with static and taut tension. That shared, suddenly narrowing gap constricts Angel’s chest and subsequently, his airflow. The piglet snuffles and snorts. Alastor moves closer. His heart races.

He thinks, perhaps, he has already found someone.

Maybe Angel _will_ throw caution to the wind.

Maybe, this time, Angel can be brave.

He closes his eyes and parts his lips, the ghost of a breath against his-

“Fuck!”

They jump apart, eyes wide.

“What the fuck is this shit on the floor?” Husk hollers. “Is this piss? Al, did ya piss the floor again, ya fucker?”

And just like that, whatever unspoken fog surrounding them dissipates.

“That’s my cue,” he says, slipping out the door, and away from Angel. “Do be sure to read my note and the directions on the bag. I left the colostrum at your door.”

“Thanks,” Angel murmurs, but it’s too late. Alastor is long gone.

He’s left bereft and confused as to why. The piglet wiggles in his lap, shattering the desolate longing with a shrill squeal. He pats its head, shushing it. It peers up at Angel with round, limpid eyes before it calms down, snuggling in the makeshift furnace of his lap.

The realization slams into him like a goddamn freight train.

“What the fuck does he mean by _again_?”

* * *

Alastor says nothing about that day.

In fact, he avoids Angel and the newly christened Fat Nuggets more adamantly, as if the incident was nothing but a waking dream. Sometimes, Fat Nuggets will pause at Alastor’s door, and paw at the ground in a fruitless attempt for acknowledgment. He’ll simply sit there, waiting for his other savior to greet him.

Or maybe that’s just Angel projecting. Either way, Alastor never does.

Over time, Angel stops trying to engage him.

And they go back to being strangers.

It’s just one of those things that wasn’t supposed to happen.

And even if it did, it didn’t matter in the first place.

He piles newer memories over it: small, fizzling escapades with unremarkable men, and grander, brighter ones with Cherri and Molly. Still, he can’t help but feel rueful. Overlooked, somehow. He explains it to Fat Nuggets one night.

“Sorry Daddy didn’t stick around,” he whispers, scratching the piglet’s back. The radio plays in the background, long after Alastor’s show ended. Fat Nuggets just snorts in return.

Of course, life has its strange ways of simultaneously twisting and unraveling the threads of fate.

One day, Angel wakes up to his roommates discussing lockdown.

And Alastor, his once elusive roommate, finally says his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This may be preaching common sense, but when in sudden possession of a cold piglet, try to promote circulation as quickly as possible to warm up the body. Speaking from personal experience, it served well enough in the past.
> 
> 2\. “How dare you” is based on the Stephen Fry-On God bit in his The Meaning of Life (2015) interview.
> 
> 3\. Everything is like, one big revenge on Husk for cockblocking that one time


End file.
